Original post date: August 12, 2018

She had perfect hair, and that’s saying something.  It was medium length, mostly medium brown, with highlights of grey-black and ginger and even some light…light that could have been blond or could have been white.  And, soft?  It had the most flawless texture—hard to imagine hair so soft.

Her eyes?  The most beautiful eyes, almond-shaped and a shade of green like the colour of emeralds that sparkled in the right light.  Her eyeliner, a thin black rim around the top and the bottom, was perfection.

Her feet were tiny by anyone’s standards and her nails were most always clean, neat and dainty.

Until she dug them into your knee or the leather couch.

That was Sam, and she died last fall at nearly 18 years old.

Pretty good for a cat.

I’d only had her for four years, when her owners moved overseas and couldn’t keep her.  The idea of adopting a 13 year old cat was a little daunting (animal doctors and dollar signs danced in my head), but if we didn’t take her, who would? No one wants an older cat.

So we took her home and she was lovely.  Settled right in and joined the family. Loved a daily outing in the backyard and a morning snack of a few blades of grass, but was terrified of the magpies (there was clearly some sort of event, and Sammy must have come out on the losing end—you don’t want to screw with magpies).  Loved the fireplace and a lap whenever and wherever she could find one.

She was with me until October of last year…and got me through the rough spots—made me feel needed and loved.

Her end was sad, but it was quick.  She woke up one morning and had a seizure.  This wasn’t the first time—she had had a few before.  How many I couldn’t say, but this one seemed worse as she was having trouble moving her hind legs.

I couldn’t stay home with her because I had my first interview for my new job that day, so I moved her stuff to the lower level of the condo so she had access to everything she would need on one level.

By the time I got home, she couldn’t move her back legs at all. I picked her up and took her to the litter box and held her there while she peed; I spoon fed her her favorite food. I set up a blanket and laid down on the floor with her. And I just held her.

By the middle of the night, I knew this was different, and I think I knew what was coming. I searched for overnight animal clinics, but the comments I saw about my options were so distressing that I waited until 7:00 AM and called the vet clinic in the plaza next to my house.

I had heard great things about them, and every word was true. They were compassionate and caring; they didn’t question my decision, and when I carried Sammy in, cradled in a blanket in a laundry basket, they let me sit with her for a while and they made her transition a quiet and peaceful one. It was tough; I’ve had cats and dogs before and I’ve been with most of them when it was time. The first was a smart little 16-year old Siamese named Curly (I know, weird name, but she was named after one of the Three Stooges), I couldn’t watch and instantly regretted not being there for her. And for the second, Sachie, 18, fat and grey and not-too-smart but sweet as anything, I was out of town, and she died at home in someone else’s arms. I regretted that — both that I wasn’t there and also that I waited too long. Moe (brother to Curly, of course, nyuk, nyuk) was last in the trio I had brought with me from New York, and I was there for him, and I was glad I was.

Note here, for those who get the Moe and Curly reference: There were originally three of these little monsters, just a few days old, abandoned by their mother in the back of a Brooklyn pizzeria. For the first weeks, I bottle-fed them every two hours, sadly, Larry did not make it. I had planned to choose one of them once they were old enough and give the other two away….but…how do you choose? So Curly and Moe stayed.

Then there were our dogs, Skye and Cypher, and that was hard too. It’s difficult with all of them.

But Sammy, she was along for the ride all through my separation and divorce, the one constant, there in the morning and at the end of the day and was always happy to see me. She was funny and affectionate and I couldn’t bear the thought of ever replacing her.

So over the months I’ve had a few visitors. Rent-a-cats if you will. First there was Mitza a tough little squirt from Brooklyn. She’s been over on and off and I think she would have liked Moe and Curly as they were from Brooklyn too (or they would have moidered each other);

Then there was Cat (yes, that’s her name). She’s my son’s and he was away for a few months at the beginning of the year. She isn’t as big as she looks, she’s just hairy.

And now I would like you to meet Finn and Alice. They moved in about two weeks ago. My friend Liz’s  cats;  just like Sammy’s parents, she’s moving overseas and can’t take them. At seven and nine years old they might have gone a long while before finding a home. And again, I can’t imagine how they would have fared at a shelter.

Alice lived in my recliner for the first week (the one Cat is sitting on in the photo), and it took a while to find her hiding space. Cat hid there too; it turns out there’s a box at the bottom of the chair that is apparently a perfect fit for a cat. Finn spent the first week tucked behind a toilet before moving to under the bed, and now both of them spend the better part of the day under the bed.

But they’re slowly working their way out. They come out when I’m at the computer; I just saw them both a few minutes ago, and they tear around a bit at night…they play a bit with the basket of toys I’ve gathered over the years, and they do love to be brushed.

So now the house and my heart are both full again. Quiet so far, but full.

I see that many of my friends are going through the same thing — losing older pets and gaining new ones — and I got to thinking that perhaps, for those of us with kids, it’s kind of cyclical. It seems for some whose kids are younger, they’re just losing their first round of four legged friends; for people like me, it might be the second or third.

Whatever the case, I know it’s sad. Heartbreaking even. And the first reaction is to say you’ll never do it again. But I have to say I’ve never regretted investing the time, money, and heart into having another little buddy, or two, in the house. The new ones find the place and a space in your heart, but they never replace. And they’re not meant to.

Please share: tell us about your pets who’ve passed:

• What do you want us to know about them?
• What advice do you have for someone grieving their pet(s)?
• Did you get another? How long did you wait? And how are you now?
• If you’ve got a photo to share (sadly, WP does not make it easy for commenters to do it directly), send it to me here along with whatever you want to say about your pet; attach the photo and I’ll post at the bottom of this post!

Oh, and I almost forgot Pookie (first 16 years of my life)! And Cluny and Barney too…