Human beings tend to overthink all sorts of stuff, but a lot of our quandaries are pretty basic. You’re either going out to dinner at the new Italian joint, or you’re staying home to make a turkey sandwich. You’re doing the laundry so you have a fresh shirt to wear, or you’re sniffing the hamper, hunting for an old-but-good-enough-ie. You either carve out the time to run five miles, or you watch another ten episodes of Breaking Bad.

For the record, the answers are Italian, wash on hot, and lace up.

I take the same straightforward approach to the current black-and-white question posed to me by Camilla Montes, the local WRBC Channel 10 morning news anchor.

“Patrick, how will our viewers know if Fluffy wants to go for a hike?” she asks in that perfectly modulated TV reporter voice that matches her coiffed black hair.

“If you’re wondering if Tiger, Tom, or Tabby is ready to become an adventure cat, there’s a simple litmus test any pet owner can conduct.” I sit on the couch across from her and run a hand down Zeus’s back. He arches into my palm and rumbles, his purr so loud he could land a career in the cat sound-effects business. Show-off. But in his defense, if I possessed an Al Green-style purr, I’d make sure the ladies heard it all the time, too. “I like to call it the drag or no-drag cat.”

“Interesting. Tell us more,” she says, her voice dripping with curiosity.

“Your cat either willingly lets you put a leash around his furry neck, or he turns into putty when you harness him, and you wind up dragging his feline butt across the floor.” I mime tugging a gone-limp cat on a leash.

“That does make it crystal clear.” Camilla flashes her practiced grin, then points a polished fingernail at me. “But how did you know to try with Zeus? Did you simply want a famous hiking partner, or did he insist on it?”

“I listened to the cat.” I lean forward, parking one hand on my knee where my cargo shorts end, since the station likes me to dress like an REI model for my segments on Tips and Tricks for Enjoying the Great Outdoors. “His behavior told me he might be willing. For instance, one time, I headed down the hallway to drop the trash in the chute, and Zeus followed me out the door of the apartment, staying by my side the whole time.” I lower my voice, cup the side of my mouth, and speak in a stage whisper. “And I don’t think it was only because there was leftover salmon in the trash.”

Camilla laughs.

“Salmon aside, he exhibited this inquisitive behavior often, and that’s when I decided to give a leash and harness a whirl.”

“And now he’s become The Hiking Tomcat.” She gestures grandly to my long-haired cat, who’s lounging next to me, his white-gloved paws folded in front of his chest and a look of satisfaction on his furry face. I swear this dude is such a ham. He was born for the cameras. “Can you show our viewers how a cat who likes to go for hikes will handle being harnessed?”

“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” I say as I stand, grab the leash and harness from the couch, and pat my leg.

Zeus stretches, slinks down the side of the couch, and gazes up at me.

“Want to go for a hike?”

His tail swishes back and forth.

Look, I’m not claiming he understands English. He’s a cat, after all, not some kind of Cesar Milan-trained dog. But Zeus knows the drill, and the leash is dangling in my hand. He stretches his neck out, almost as if he’s inviting me to put the red hiking harness over his head. I slide it on and clip his leash to the end. Zeus struts a few feet.

Camilla’s smile beams as brightly as the TV lights blasting from above. “There you go.”

“Would you like to walk him, Camilla?”

Her glossy red lips part in a wide grin. “I would love to walk this Internet superstar.”

I place a finger to my lips. “Shh. We don’t want his fame to go to his head.”

“If he only knew how purr-fectly popular he is.” Camilla takes the leash and walks Zeus around the set. “We brought in something to simulate the conditions on the trails.”

Camilla escorts my boy to some fake rocks set up for this demo while the on-air screen shows an Internet video I’ve shot of Zeus clambering up a hill on a nearby trail. When they reach the rocks, the shot returns to Camilla, walking alongside in heels as Zeus scurries up the rocks and then down the other side. Note to self—score this cat some commercial work and see if we can retire on Friskies royalties.

But then, I’ve no interest in slowing down. My life is the textbook definition of so fucking good. My business is thriving, my family is healthy and happy, and my friends are settling down. There’s only one thing I long for more of. Well, not a thing. More like a lovely, captivating, I-just-click-with-her someone.

But now’s not the time to dwell on a certain woman.

Camilla returns to her blue chair, and I park myself on the couch again, alongside my loyal companion. I spend the next forty-five seconds reviewing trail safety for those who walk with their cats. After all, hiking with a feline is not for the faint of heart. People with dogs have no idea how easy they have it. Hiking with a feline is a whole other kettle of fish, but well worth it for the photos alone. We’re talking unexpected goldmine. When my sister, Evie, plunked this cat on my doorstep and begged me to give him a home, I had no idea he’d turn out to be, one, totally cool, and two, the best marketing ever for my adventure tour company.

When the segment ends, Camilla thanks me and cuts to a commercial. “See you again next week, Patrick. I’ve been thinking we could do a piece on first aid in the woods.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you know what I’ve been dying to have you do a segment on?”

“Whatever you want, I can do it,” I say, keeping up the easygoing vibe, since that’s what works best for business partners.

“What if we did a piece on how to glamp?”

I chuckle lightly, rubbing a palm across my short, neat beard. “I can do that, and I can also give you a simple trick for camping with style right now if you’d like.”

Her chocolate-brown eyes twinkle with excitement. “Please do.”

“Do you have your phone with you?”

“Of course. It’s on silent, but I’m never without my closest companion,” she says, taking it from her skirt pocket, unlocking the screen, and handing it to me.

I tap a few words into the search bar, and the result I need returns quickly. I hand the phone to Camilla. “This is who you call.”

Her reaction is priceless—a slow smile spreads as the name and number for the Ritz Carlton appears on her screen.

“So true. What can I say? I’m not an outdoorsy girl at all. But I love your segments. So does my new intern, Taylor,” she says, lowering her voice and looking toward a bubbly blonde who’s waiting to escort me from the set. Funny, since my job requires me to find my way out of pretty much anywhere on God’s great, green earth. Not to mention, I’ve been the guest commentator for the station’s Friday morning outdoors segment for a few months now and I know the way to the door.

Then, because I like the furry dude and don’t want to torture him—and taking a cat for a walk on the sidewalks of Manhattan is a unique and terrible form of torture—I drop Zeus into my backpack, slide the straps on, and leave the studio with the perky cheerleader girl by my side and the cat’s silvery head poking out the top of the pack.

“I made s’mores the other day,” Taylor offers with a big smile, her bright blue eyes meeting mine. “They were so good.”

Her so has eight syllables and all of them drip with innuendo.

“That’s great,” I say, since I’m not interested in entertaining any syllables or innuendo with someone barely past puberty.

“Do you like s’mores, Patrick?”

“Who doesn’t like s’mores?”

“I was wondering, though, if you might have any tips for me on how to make them. Like, how do I get the chocolate and marshmallow to come together perfectly?” She stops at the door, leans her hip against it suggestively, and twirls a strand of her hair.

And I do believe s’mores porn is officially a thing.

Even though I pride myself on making the world’s greatest version of the campfire treat, I keep my answer simple, but clear. “It’s all in how long you let the ingredients age,” I say, since Taylor is twenty, twenty-one at best. “See you next week.”

I say goodbye and leave, catching a train downtown then walking through the streets of lower Manhattan.

Do I get stares because of the cat on my back?

Hell, yeah.

Do I enjoy it?

Absolutely.

I smile and nod, giving a few salutes and a couple of how are yous and even a meow as a little kid walks by with her mom and whispers while pointing at my shoulder. As if I don’t know there’s a badass pussycat purring in my ear.

As I turn onto the block with my building, he’s not the only one purring.

Because right there in front of the lobby, wearing reflective sunglasses and jeans that hug her curves deliciously, is a certain woman I’m very happy to see.

Mia Summers. Tiny but mighty. A powerful sprite with wavy hair, hazel eyes, a soft heart, and a quick wit I just dig.

I met her several months ago when she was visiting her brother, Max, and it’s safe to say she’s claimed center stage in my mind ever since.

When I see Mia, when I talk to Mia, when I spend time with Mia, it confirms my belief that some things are simple.

Like whether a cat drags his whole body on the floor or he gamely trots alongside you.

It’s a yes or no.

A black or white.

You’re either attracted to your good friend’s sister or you’re not.

For the record, the answer is I am, so fucking much.