Days of snarky cat jokes are over

I was feeling lonely one night about 14 years ago when I made a pact with Andres, the kitten I had just adopted from the Mesilla Valley Animal Shelter: Get me to age 65, and I promise to take good care of you.

The plan was to get a dog once I was retired and had more time to care for one, and I made sure to tell everyone that. I shared the snarky attitude toward cats that is so prevalent in modern culture.

My first cat was named Pogonip. When he died, my next two were named Substitute and Replacement. I said it was in honor of Pogonip, but really it was just a mean joke about how disposable I thought cats were.

That attitude was probably driven by gender insecurity. Men are supposed to own dogs — preferably big, mean, snarling dogs. Women own cats. Hence our soon-to- be vice president’s lament about “childless cat ladies.”

It was just me and Andres for a while. Then Earnie joined the family when her owner moved to California.

She was a smallish cat who was routinely getting picked on when my friend took her in. That made her much more cautious than Andres. She still spends much of her day hiding in safe spaces.

Two cats were fine. But when Bonnie showed up I had a problem. She was a tiny, little thing, and hungry. She waited outside the door until I went to feed Andres and Earnie, then she dashed in and stole their food. She was less than half their size, but absolutely fearless. I had to keep her.

The problem was that modern culture has decreed three cats are too many. People start looking at you like you’re a hoarder. And so, I would always explain that I had three cats, but only wanted two.

During the past few years, I’ve had two friends join me and the cats — one an old friend who I have known for years, the other a new friend who lost her house in the Ruidoso floods and needed a place to stay. And so, the household is much busier and less solitary than when I made that pact with Andres 14 years ago.

Last Thursday, after I returned home from a short night out, Andres jumped up on the couch and snuggled up next to my right leg, just like always.

Then he quietly and peacefully took his final breath and died.

I know that 14 years is a long life for a cat. And, I can only hope that when my time comes, I pass as peacefully as he did. None of that changes the fact I’m having to stop and wipe away tears as I write this.

Andres may not have fully comprehended the pact we made 14 years ago, but he more than lived up to his side. My 66th birthday was in July.

And so, my days of making snarky cat jokes are over.

That would be disrespectful to Andres.

Walt Rubel is the former opinion page editor of the Las Cruces Sun-News. He lives in Las Cruces, and can be reached at:

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