So I got a cat. A kitten. 10 weeks old. 2 pounds. She was a street cat who was rescued a few blocks away from my apartment. (It’s a rags to riches story; she was homeless, but now she’s moved on up to my deluxe apartment in the sky. And yes, I’m quoting The Jefferson’s theme song.)

I named her Humtum, but I usually call her Pewey (which is short for Pewey-head). I’m not sure why I do this.

I love her dearly, but she’s a pain in the ass sometimes. I’ve got steel wool stuffed into cracks and crevices around the apartment, which is designed to keep out bugs and mice. Pewey has made it her personal mission to locate every bit of steel wool she can find. This drives me insane, and I’m terrified that she’s going to eat some of it. And she climbs all over my keyboard when I’m at the computer. This was sort of endearing at first, but quickly became annoying, especially whenever I’m on deadline.

I realize that she won’t be a kitten for very long, so I wanted to make sure that I properly record her kittenhood for posterity. So I follow her around nearly every day with a camera, snapping pictures of her, trying to catch her in the act of napping (not hard to do), or doing something cute.

One day last week as I followed her from room to room with my camera at the ready, it struck me that there might be something more than a little sad about a 36-year-old man alone in his apartment in Queens trying to take photographs of his cat.