The Cat’s Out of the Ballot Box: How Stubbs Became Mayor of Talkeetna

Sometimes elections give us the opportunity to choose someone who seems fated for greatness. Other times, not so much, such as the city that elected a can of foot powder to its city council, (which is still somehow less pungent than some real politicians we could name). But even that tale of talcum-fueled governance pales in comparison to the fluffy, four-legged statesmanship coming out of Talkeetna, Alaska.

While some towns elect career bureaucrats or blow-dried opportunists, Talkeetna went full whiskers-and-paws and made a cat their mayor. This bold experiment in democracy seems to have worked, because they just keep on doing it.

Despite the warnings about the dangers of combining curiosity with cats, we invite you to follow us on this feline frolic through the fantastical, fuzzy-footed fiefdom of Talkeetna, where four-legged figureheads flaunt their fame, flout formality, and firmly establish fur-based federalism. This is democracy’s cutest success story — and a rare example of a politician whose approval ratings go up after peeing in his own office.

Democracy Goes to the Cats

The legend begins in 1997. Talkeetna, population: “depends on the season and whether the moose are counted,” held a local election. The slate of candidates was, reportedly, uninspiring enough that someone wrote in “Stubbs”—a kitten with a stumpy tail who had just been adopted from a box of free kittens outside Nagley’s General Store. And because nothing gets votes like soft fur and no policy platform, Stubbs won. In a landslide. Against human candidates. Who presumably have opposable thumbs and everything.

Bloom County’s Bill the Cat may have run for president, but Stubbs’ political biography has one feature Bill the Cat could not claim: Stubbs was real.

Stubbs moved into the mayoral post with the kind of swagger only a cat can truly pull off. He spent most of his tenure lounging in the general store, sipping catnip-laced water from a margarita glass, and greeting visitors—hundreds of them a week. Tourists flocked from across the globe just to see the small-town feline figurehead who ran on a strict platform of naps, snacks, and never answering emails.

Talkeetna: Where the Wild Things Are (and One of Them Was Mayor)

Nestled at the confluence of three rivers and roughly halfway between Anchorage and Denali National Park, the town of Talkeetna, Alaska looks like it was plucked from a snow globe and populated by quirky frontier spirits with a weakness for flannel and feline leadership. This charming speck on the map boasts a population that hovers around 900 humans, give or take a few seasonal hermits, and at least one honorary cat with delusions of grandeur.

Founded in the early 20th century as a supply hub for gold miners, railroad workers, and whatever the Alaskan equivalent of “guys with suspicious pasts and strong opinions about axes” might be, Talkeetna has long marched to the beat of its own sled dog. These days, it’s best known as a gateway to Denali, a haven for artists, and a town where the line between municipal planning and moose herding is blurrier than a snowstorm at midnight.

Crucially, Talkeetna is unincorporated. That means it doesn’t have a formal local government. No city council. No town hall meetings. No zoning board arguments about whether raccoons qualify as emotional support animals. The “mayor” title, as it applied to the now-legendary Stubbs the Cat, was entirely honorary—a sort of furry figurehead elected by popular whim and sustained by media attention, tourist fascination, and the cat’s own complete inability to veto anything.

The story goes that in 1997, when none of the human candidates proved especially compelling, a few cheeky locals wrote in “Stubbs” on the ballot as a joke. Whether or not the write-in votes were official, legal, or even tallied is irrelevant—what matters is that the people decided this orange kitten, adopted from a box behind Nagley’s General Store, would be their mayor. And that was that. No recount. No runoff. Just one stumpy-tailed cat suddenly promoted to head of state.

Of course, Stubbs didn’t do much in the way of legislation, urban development, or filibustering. His political duties mostly included napping in public places, posing for photos, sipping catnip cocktails, and attracting busloads of tourists hoping to meet a mayor who wouldn’t raise their taxes or yell during town meetings. Honestly, that alone qualifies him as one of the most successful politicians in recent memory.

Stubbs the Survivor

Being a public figure is never easy—even if you have nine lives to play with. Over the years, Stubbs survived a slew of near-death experiences that would make any action movie protagonist look like a pampered chihuahua. Take, for example:

• The time he fell into a deep fryer.
• The time he got shot with a BB gun.
• The time he hitched a ride out of town on a garbage truck.
• And let us not forget the assassination attempt, when he was mauled by a dog and spent days in critical condition.

Lesser cats would have given up. We suspect even Chuck Norris would have been tempted to throw in the towel. Stubbs just adjusted his nap schedule and carried on.

His constituents—human and otherwise—loved him for it. Fundraisers were held for his vet bills. Get-well cards poured in. The people of Talkeetna didn’t just tolerate a cat in charge—they believed in him. Which is more than we can say for most congressional subcommittees.

Term Limits Are for Mortals

Stubbs served from 1997 until his death in July 2017—twenty years of uninterrupted, scandal-free rule. That’s more than we can say for most politicians who serve just a fraction of that time. He died peacefully, surrounded by people who loved him and possibly a half-eaten can of Fancy Feast.

But Talkeetna wasn’t ready to go back to boring ol’ human leadership—or, you know, leadership at all. In true dynastic fashion, another cat stepped up: Denali, a younger feline who took over the ceremonial role with equally majestic levels of aloofness. Depending on who you ask, Denali is either Stubbs’ protégé, nephew, or reincarnation. He served until his death in 2022. The current feline mayor is Aurora. Like his predecessors, he tends to hang out in the general store, continues the tradition of lazy governance, and refuses to disclose his tax returns. Suspicious.

The Real Power of Cat Mayors

So what’s the deal? Was this a real political move, or just a town-sized joke that got wildly out of hand? The answer: yes. Talkeetna’s cat mayor became a marketing marvel, a tourist draw, and a delightful jab at political seriousness. Mayor Stubbs was featured on CNN, NPR, Time Magazine, and more. He did interviews. He posed for photos. He was on the receiving end of more fan mail than your average senator. All without saying a word and while hacking up hairballs.

And really, isn’t that what we all want from our politicians? Minimal talking, reliable purring, and the ability to nap through a filibuster without anyone noticing?

Long Live the Mayor

Talkeetna’s cat mayor tradition lives on not because it’s necessary, but because it’s wonderful. In an era of angry politics and doomscrolling, the idea that a sleepy Alaskan town would elect a cat as a joke and then just… roll with it for nearly thirty years is the kind of chaotic good energy we desperately need more of.

Considering the legacy of some cats, such as Tibbles, who was responsible for the extinction of an entire species of bird, Talkeetnah’s tradition seems distinctly more wholesome.

So the next time you’re feeling disillusioned with politics, just remember: somewhere in Alaska, there’s a general store with a cat on the counter, a sign that says “The Mayor is In,” and a town that decided the best way to move forward was to follow a feline. That’s the kind of political purr-suasion we can get behind.

---