“Go on, Joy, get two!”

I never thought my mom would have to strong-arm me to adopt multiple pets. But when Casper, my cat of 19 years, passed on, I knew that if I was going to get another cat, it would have to be a really special one. Casper had seen me through a lot in life: sharing my after-school snacks, snuggling with me through broken friendships, welcoming me home from college, and ultimately, lodging a deep and permanent place in my heart. My intention would never be to replace her, irreplaceable as she was, but I understood it was right to still express my love for cats. And as Casper had so resoundingly proven, one cat was enough.

Tell that to my mom, though. We have a history of fudging the numbers a bit whenever we set out to get a pet, and the day we got Casper had been no different.

It was on that day the I was staring excitedly into a terrarium full of anoles, those little green lizards sometimes miscalled chameleons. In no time I had made my choice: I wanted the one with the kink in his tail, early proof of my burgeoning affection for the underdog.

My mom and I were almost out the door when an incessant mewing drew me to the back of the store, where I discovered three kittens closeted behind a glass partition. And there was Casper, meowing her head off with a desperation and insistence incongruous with her petite stature. As with the anole, my favoring of Casper over her cage-mates was immediate and unquestioned; apparently, in addition to rooting for the underdog, I’m also a big fan of the gregarious.

It didn’t take much to convince my mom to double our purchase. Little did I know then that we were apparently setting a two-pet precedent, one that my mom was once again invoking on this day almost twenty years later.

But sitting in the “teen room” at Heartland Animal Shelter, I wasn’t so easily swayed into a twin deal. Not even one kitten—much less two—stood out to me in just the right way. None of them was Casper.

In lieu of making a decision, I went outside to clear my head. My mom felt the matter was settled, however: “You already know,” she coaxed. I scoffed, but then, sure enough, the gray kitten kept coming to mind. It was enough of an encouragement to return to the teen room and give it another go.

But the gray kitten was napping and in no mood to confirm for me that she was the one. I was disappointed and disillusioned all over again.

Meanwhile, a little black-and-white kitten had curled up in my lap; as I was petting her I noticed the kink in her tail. And then the gray kitten woke up and bounded over with an affable chirp and a hearty head butt.

I had found my kittens.

Zoey and Moon came home three days later. It makes sense now that it would take two cats to share the love I had for Casper; no single cat would have been enough to carry on the legacy she left in my heart. The qualities I cherished in Casper live on: in Zoey, I see Casper’s warmth and appetite, and in Moon, her charm and sweetness. I couldn’t have asked for two better cats to perpetuate Casper’s memory—and make their own.

And don’t tell my mom, but she was right: sometimes, it takes two.