We have three cats. It's like having children, but there is no

Ron Reagan, son of a leader yet ever his own man, once spoke with humor that veiled a deeper truth: “We have three cats. It’s like having children, but there is no tuition involved.” At first, his words bring laughter, for they play on the comparison between the raising of cats and the raising of children. Yet behind the jest lies an ancient reflection on responsibility, companionship, and the curious way in which love binds humans to those they care for, whether they be children of their blood or creatures entrusted to their home.

The ancients long understood that to keep animals was no small duty. Cats, in particular, were once worshiped in Egypt, their presence seen as divine, their protection considered sacred. To live with cats was not only to feed and shelter them, but to recognize in their independence and mystery a reflection of the eternal. Thus, Reagan’s words are more than a quip; they echo the timeless truth that in caring for animals, one enters a covenant of affection and duty, a bond that mirrors, in smaller measure, the raising of children.

Yet his jest also shines a light on the difference. Children require not only food, shelter, and affection, but education, guidance, and the costly burdens of preparation for the world. The mention of tuition calls to mind the sacrifices parents make, the gold poured into shaping a future. In contrast, cats demand less of the material world, yet more of the heart’s patience, for they cannot be molded as children can. They are teachers of acceptance, not of control. Thus Reagan’s laughter hides a subtle reverence: that while they do not need tuition, they still require care, presence, and love.

History offers its witness. Ernest Hemingway, the great writer, kept dozens of cats at his home in Key West. He wrote of them not as mere pets but as companions, each with its own spirit and dignity. They roamed freely, unbound, and yet they gave him solace and company through nights of labor. They were not his children, yet they demanded the same consistency of care. In their independence, they reminded him that love does not always mean shaping another to your will—it sometimes means allowing them to remain who they are.

Reagan’s words also remind us of the universality of care. Whether it is for children, animals, the sick, or the poor, care is the essence of our humanity. To feed, to shelter, to guard—that is the rhythm of love. The comparison to children is not to diminish their importance but to elevate the role of the caregiver. For anyone who has tended to a creature, no matter how small, has tasted the sacred duty of stewardship.

The lesson here is clear: measure your life not by what you control, but by what you care for. Do not dismiss the bonds you form with animals as lesser than those you form with people. Instead, see them as part of the great tapestry of love, woven of patience, sacrifice, and joy. In the playful independence of a cat, one may learn lessons as profound as those taught by a child: to let go, to accept, to love without expectation.

Therefore, let Reagan’s jest be carried as wisdom. Laugh, yes, at the absence of tuition, but honor the presence of responsibility. Whether you raise children or care for animals, whether your duty is heavy with gold or light with simple tasks, treat it with reverence. For in every act of care, you reflect the divine. And in the eyes of the creature you cherish, whether child or cat, you glimpse the eternal truth: that life’s highest calling is not to possess, but to nurture.