I was unable to sleep and when I walked downstairs, I still expected to see you there, looking up at me with those bright green eyes, always alert, always interested and curious as to what I might be up to. It has only been eight hours since I bid you good-bye, holding your little hand in mine, running my fingers over your fur one last time.
You came to me fourteen years ago, by means of a friend who has since moved away. He called me. A little black and white kitten, a girl he thought, and a stray had been venturing into his garden. I had recently moved into my own apartment and all that was lacking was a companion. Yes, of course I was interested. He called again the next night, having caught you, so I raced to the store for a litter pan, litter and food before picking you up.
You were beautiful. Black with white paws, white under your chin and a little white tuxedo shirt that trailed down to your little tummy, you were quite regal. Tiny, you used to sleep in a kleenex box that was partially empty. We were quickly fast friends and I named you Molly, after the female lead in the movie “Ghost”. It wasn’t long after that when I realized you were not a Molly at all! No, a little boy, so I changed your name to Sam, from the same movie. It only seemed right.
My mother picked you up from the vet after you were spayed and declawed. I was at work, worried sick about you. How badly would you feel after undergoing surgery? I certainly didn’t want my little friend to be hurting. Mom reassured me that when she opened up the kitty carrier, you stretched out your front paws lazily and then strode out to see what I had left you to eat in your bowl.
Nothing bothered you, Sam, or at least little did. The only time I truly remember you being upset was when I first became involved in the local dinner theater. When I would leave for rehearsals in the evenings, you would wrap your little paws around my leg as if begging me, “Stay with me! Keep me company!”
We moved together several times and you saw me through my bad roomie choices. Both lots had dogs but you never complained, even when Audrey would straddle you and lick your head. Oh, you looked slightly annoyed at times, but took it all in stride. I remember deciding how you would look sporting a bandanna around your neck, but you were not too pleased, twisting and turning to try to get it off, dubbing what from that moment on was called the “Sam bam bandanna dance.” Okay, so we never tried the bandanna thing again.
I would have done anything to always have you with me. Living with the wiccan, as we read Anne Rice’s vampire series together, I pronounced one night that if I were a vampire that the first thing I would do was to make you a vampire too, so we could always be together.
I loved you that much.
On cold nights, you would snuggle up against my back in bed. You were never a lap baby, but would often lie beside me or on the arm of whatever piece of furniture I was sitting on. When I had a new perm, you would walk across the back of the sofa to bite at my hair. Yes, new perms smell badly and you made that abundantly clear.
I always loved the little sounds you would make when watching the birds outside and at times you would try to join them. Lucky for me, you were never a sprinter when you happened to sneak out. No, you were a meanderer, never venturing far, so I was always able to find you. Even the one time you were accidentally left out and had a six hour adventure, when we pulled the car up in front of the house, not knowing you were out at all, there you were on the side walk in front of the house, looking at us as if to ask, “What took you so long? It’s cold out here!”
For thirteen years my best buddy thrived and then suddenly something wasn’t right. You were a big boy, weighing in at eighteen pounds, but you were beginning to shrink. I thought it was my imagination at first, but then the picture became clearer. A blood test revealed you were diabetic, but medication didn’t seem to help you. The weight continued to drop from your body slowly and you were so sick at times. You were still my bright eyed boy, the only cat I knew who understood a computer being shut down. All I had to do was starting closing windows on the screen and you were on your feet demanding your bedtime kitty treats.
You weren’t getting any better, so we consulted a second doctor, hoping to find out you had hypothyroid, but you didn’t, nor were you diabetic. By this time, you were down to seven pounds and I could feel all the little bones in your body. Exploratory surgery revealed a problem with your pancreas and air in your intestines, but medication continued not to help you. You never uttered a word of complaint. You were silent through the needles and the sutures as I struggled to “fix” you. Cats can live to be twenty or older and I was not about to be robbed.
A last ditch effort to get you to eat as you had stopped, failed. You were now unsteady on your feet, constantly begging for food, but when I gave you the special treats you had always loved, chicken and tuna, you only took one or two nibbles and then walked away. I realized then what you had known for months. You were dying. Just over five pounds and you were slowly starving and I knew nothing else to try. I had to make the hardest decision of my life, Sam.
To take yours away.
I didn’t want you to suffer. You had been so patient with me, waiting for me to realize the truth. So I loaded what was left of you into the kitty carrier one last time, promising you that you would never have to go into it again, but I lied. I brought you home in it, wrapped up in a sheet, ready to be buried in the back yard. I’m sorry. I was so distraught
I never thought about it.
I held your little paw in the vet’s office, crying, not wanting to say good-bye to you. My heart cried out, “Stay with me! I’ll miss your company!” But you had to go and in our hearts we both knew it. Your eyes had not been as bright the last three days, and you would stare off into space, seeing something I couldn’t share with you. My heart broke when the doctor softly said, “He’s gone.”
My little handsome tux man. I’m going to miss you so much. You gave so much to my life, to my heart. You loved purely, and trusted completely, even in the last moments of your life. I close my eyes now, through the tears, and imagine you at the bridge, waiting for me, and my Sam, when I see you there, we’ll stay together and
forever we will enjoy each other’s company.
In memoriam
Sam 1990-2004.