They say “only the strong survive.”

If that’s true, Arnold would have lived forever.

He was strong the day he arrived, a New York City boy with a big ego and a bum pancreas. The public shelter called him “Socks,” but the gloves were off.

Arnold was not a victim of diabetes or despair. He was a sharp-dressed action hero with a smart mouth and a story to tell.

The prologue was the words “Don’t Underestimate Me” written five hundred times. Arnold fought and fussed and flexed his mischief muscles. If we thought we were doing a favor for a sad, sickly cat who had run out of time, we were in the wrong theater.

But once he informed us that he was invincible, Arnold could move on to the meat of the story.

His business here was becoming everyone’s best friend. Yes, he had an attitude the size of Austria, but it was no match for his herculean heart. If you ever doubted that cats can tell jokes, all you had to do was hang out with Arnold. He was warm and wisecracking, and his whiskers electrified with excitement at the chance to keep you company.

One small caveat.

In Arnold’s dictionary, “you” was limited to humans. Come to think of it, so was “us.” You had an open invitation to Arnold’s heart so long as you were one of us. All of us considered Arnold our hero, our bestie, and the epitome of everything a cat can be. But heaven help “them,” the unsavory nincompoops unworthy of Arnold’s time.

“Them” included one hundred percent of non-Arnold cats, dating back to Genesis.

At Tabby’s Place, you are allowed to have strong opinions, even if that means you must have a private suite. Arnold was promoted to our Adoption Team’s office. Far from the dingbats and turnip-heads we call “cats,” Arnold could finally excel.

At everything.

What do you call a cat whose greatest strengths are strength itself? You call him Arnold, and you call him up anytime you are grim, glum, or grieving. Sure, we gave Arnold insulin, unwavering homage, and the miscellaneous medical and meat-based treatments such a star requires.

But we were never under any illusion as to who was the stronger party.

It was Arnold who was strong enough to be silly. If your heart was breaking, but no one on Earth knew, Arnold would take care of you. He knew when to cuddle, and he knew when to crank up the hijinks. He knew how to comfort, and he knew his comic timing.

He let us dress him like a diplomat and kiss his forehead for strength. He let us pretend that he was the recipient and we were the givers. Strong ones always do.

If Arnold knew that he was nearing the end of his action movie, he did not spill the beans to his best friends. Even as his blood glucose swung like a tetherball and his appetite waned, he sat tall in his stroller. Volunteers promenaded Arnold through the realm, and he savored it with all his strength.

But Arnold’s physical strength was waning. Love waxed valiant, as our vet team pursued every possible treatment. Drew, matchless in mercy, had the courage to bring Arnold home, spoon-feeding him day and night. Heroic deeds en-haloed our hero in his final days. We struggled to find strength to accept the oncoming goodbye.

At the end of an action movie, there is often a moment they call “deus ex machina,” or “God in the machine.” The heroes are helpless, backs against the wall as the enemy closes in. The situation is hopeless. All is lost.

But then, against all odds, hope comes. Help has a thousand faces. They may be angels, Hobbits, or ordinary friends in sweatpants. But something glitches in death’s machine, and everything is alright after all. In fact, it is better than if the bad things had never happened.

Arnold did not receive a reprieve in the ordinary way. Our arms are aching for him, and our eyes run over with tears.

But if only the strong survive, then the strongest outlive death. Arnold is still with us, every time we are brave on love’s behalf.

We will see his whiskers twitching, tickled by his own jokes, every time we lift a drooping friend. He is with us in the warmth and the wisecracks.

He is even here as we nurture the nincompoops. From where Arnold sits today, he has the strength to see that love is large enough for everyone.

Even cats not called “Arnold.”

Arnold, beloved, we will call your name whenever we need to be strong. You have given us more than we could repay. We will see you again, in the great action movie that never, ever ends.

Special thanks to two of Arnold’s dearest friends, staff members Kelly and Tiff, for the photo gallery below. Tiff, who shared her office with Arnold, writes, “Arnold was my favorite office cat by far! He always made sure that I acknowledged his presence, whether it was talking to me or placing his paw ever so gently on my cheek until I paid attention to him or gave him treats. He had me wrapped around his little paws, and he definitely knew it. I will miss him so much.”

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