I still remember the day my mother-in-law, Irene, made her big announcement. She was sitting in her favorite armchair, flipping through a magazine, when she casually said, “I’m getting a kitten.” At first, I thought she was joking. After all, she’s 77, lives alone, and has been complaining about her sore joints and tiredness for months. But the look on her face told me she was serious.

From the moment she uttered those words, my heart sank. I could already imagine the disaster: a young, hyperactive kitten running around, knocking things over, climbing curtains, and demanding constant attention. Kittens, as sweet as they are, require a lot of work. They need scheduled feedings, litter box cleaning, regular vet visits, and enough playtime to keep them out of trouble. And that’s not even counting the potential scratches or accidents around the house.

I politely tried to reason with her, mentioning her health concerns. “You’ve been feeling weak lately, Irene,” I said gently. “Maybe a lower-maintenance pet, like a small fish or a turtle, would be easier.” But she smiled and shook her head, insisting that having a kitten would help keep her active and engaged. She said, “I need companionship, and a fish can’t curl up in my lap or purr when I’m sad.”

While I understand the emotional support a pet can give, I can’t help but worry about the practical side. Irene’s living alone, with no spouse or roommate to step in when she’s too tired or too sick. In the back of my mind, I pictured what might happen if she tripped over the kitten, or if she forgot to feed it, or if it got outside and ran away. And if something goes wrong, I have a bad feeling I’ll be the one to clean up the mess—both literally and figuratively.

A couple of weeks later, sure enough, she brought the kitten home. A tiny, gray furball with bright green eyes, who meowed nonstop. The kitten’s name is Buttons, and it’s admittedly adorable. But from the very start, everything I feared began happening. The first night, Buttons decided the best place to nap was right on top of Irene’s pillow. Irene thought it was sweet, but she woke up the next morning with a kink in her neck from trying not to move all night.

The next day, Buttons clawed at the sofa, leaving small tears along the fabric. Irene sighed but said, “That’s okay, it’s an old couch anyway.” Then Buttons discovered the joy of chasing the shadow of her own tail, spinning wildly on the living room carpet. Irene laughed, but after a few minutes, she looked exhausted just watching the kitten’s nonstop energy. By the time evening came, Irene was yawning and complaining of a backache, but the kitten still wanted to play.

In the meantime, she called me for every small incident. “Buttons won’t stop meowing,” or “Is it normal for a kitten to scratch so much?” or “Can you take me to the vet next week? Buttons has an appointment.” Right away, I found myself roped into a bigger role than I wanted. The sense of dread grew. I realized that while Irene might have the best intentions, the day-to-day responsibilities were quickly falling on me.

One Sunday afternoon, I visited Irene’s apartment to help with groceries. As I walked in, I saw Buttons leaping off a high shelf, nearly knocking over a vase. Irene was napping in her recliner, so I rushed to catch the vase before it crashed. Buttons meowed at me, then darted under the table.

I quietly woke Irene. “Are you alright? Why didn’t you stop the kitten from jumping?” She rubbed her eyes and said she must have dozed off, missing the entire event. I looked at the fresh scratch marks on the furniture, the scattered cat toys, and the hair on the couch. I was torn between annoyance and pity for this entire situation.

Over the next few weeks, Irene continued to insist that everything was under control, even though I saw the signs of her struggle: the tired lines on her face, the random calls asking for help with simple tasks like cleaning up a spill or lifting a heavy bag of cat food. She always put on a brave face, as if she was determined to prove that adopting Buttons was a good decision.

I tried talking to my husband, but he shrugged, saying his mother was strong-willed. “She’s always been independent,” he reminded me. “If she wants a kitten, that’s her choice.” But I argued that this wasn’t just her choice—it affected me, too. When she can’t keep up with Buttons, I’m the one who will have to take the kitten in or find it a new home. No one else seems worried about that.

One day, I got a call from Irene, sounding frantic. She said, “Buttons ran out the door when I opened it for the mailman! I can’t find her anywhere!” My heart sank. I drove over in a panic, picturing the poor kitten lost in the busy streets or hiding under a car. Thankfully, we found Buttons behind the trash bins, trembling and meowing. Irene was in tears, and I felt a swirl of relief and frustration. “This is exactly what I was afraid of,” I told her softly, hugging the trembling kitten.

Despite all this chaos, Irene remains stubborn. She says she loves Buttons and that the kitten brings her joy. Maybe, in time, they will settle into a routine. I see glimpses of happiness on her face whenever Buttons curls up in her lap. And I can’t deny the kitten is sweet. But deep in my gut, I’m worried that Irene is taking on more than she can handle.

Now here is my question: if you had an elderly family member who insisted on adopting a high-energy pet, would you support their choice no matter what, or would you try to convince them to pick a simpler companion?