Twenty-five years ago I found a tiny little orange kitten in the hedge on the side of a friend’s yard. I had recently separated from my wife and had to leave behind our cats, Custer and Kafka, and given my disoriented emotional state I knew that a pet would help me keep my shit together. HobGoblin was the first.

Over the years to come more cats found me. Badfoot, the chunky ball of love who showed up injured on my porch. Queen Nicolette Beigeface the First, who I helped weather a hurricane and who subsequently returned to have her litter of kittens under my window. Those kittens stayed with me, too: Magellan, Turkolette, and Two-Face. Finally, fourteen years ago Gordon Whitefoot joined the tribe.

They moved from Miami to Maryland with me — seven doped-up cats in the back of a borrowed SUV. They did not approve of the move, mostly because they were creatures of habit and they’d only ever lived in my Miami house since being rescued. Still, the new place was a big house, and they had a lot more room to move around and stake their various territories. They got used to it, and I got used to cleaning up after them.

Nothing lasts forever, though. HobGoblin died of old age a couple of years later, a cranky old man to the end. Magellan’s passing was a surprise, though — pancreatic cancer took the resident scaredy-cat from us in a matter of weeks. And even though he loved everyone and everything in the world (except for loud noises and dogs), Badfoot wasn’t the same after the loss of his best friends; he was the next to leave us, having a stroke on a Sunday morning.

When we moved from Shadow House to Mystery House Nicolette adopted the title of cranky old cat with gusto, refusing to associate with any of the others (and abandoning any pretense at personal hygiene, acquiring the secondary name of Hobocat). She was still full of love though, if only really for me.

Age caught up with Two-Face next, dwindling the tribe to two. Her sister Turkolette made it to Cornfield Manor with me, but didn’t last much longer than that.

And today I had to say goodbye to Gordon Whitefoot. As a young cat he survived a vicious, bloody dog attack that his vet was sure would kill him, but he pulled through and became a wonderfully funny and loving cat. He developed diabetes but recovered, his sugar levels returning to normal on their own. But a growth on his liver slowed him down and eventually it became obvious that he was ready to go.

I would say that it was hard to say goodbye, but that’s obvious — it’s never an easy decision. In this case it’s more than just saying goodbye to a well-loved pet, though; it’s the end of an age for me. I won’t say that I’ll never have another pet, but I’m not planning on it. Twenty-five years is a long time to host a tribe of unruly feline overlords, and my own health isn’t the best any longer. It feels unbelievably selfish of me, but it may be time to devote more energy to taking care of myself. And then… perhaps.

But it’s been twenty-five years full of fun and silliness and love. What more could we ask for in our lives?