The Good Cat That’s a phrase you don’t often hear used about cats. Cats are, well, cats. They may be cute/adorable/balls of fur. They may be wildcats, tomcats, alley cats, signifying that they’re “untamed.” They may be grumpy, moody, or mean. They may be silly, goofy—well, you get my point. But Sam is a good cat. We first got him as kind of a replacement cat. The neighbor’s dogs had gotten into our barn and killed our two little barn kittens (a tragic, horrific event), and a few days later we were at the horse vet and Dr. Hicks was desperate to rid himself of a litter of kittens. We brought two home; Briana promptly named hers Frodo, and Connor named his Sam, both little gray tabbies. “Now these are barn cats,” I remember telling them. “They live in the barn. They’re not house cats.” Well, if I ever wanted the kids outside, that was the way to do it. Connor would spend hours in the barn with those cats. I remember him tearing up a bale of hay on the barn floor, then climbing into the hayloft with Sam (who was just a kitten at the time), then he’d carefully toss Sam into the hay and jump after him. He could repeat that for hours. And Sam let him. We’d lock the cats in the tack room at night so they wouldn’t get killed by some predator. I remember Connor going to the barn one morning with me to let the cats out, and when they scampered around, Connor said to me, “Dad, it’s be great to be Sam. I mean, he wakes up every morning to Barnworld.” He said the word like it was better than Disneyworld times ten. Well, winter came, and the kids begged me to let the cats stay in the house overnight, “because it was too cold.” I let them stay in the schoolroom, knowing the kids really wanted to cuddle with them in bed at night—and soon it evolved to that point. The cats had the run of the house (over Bonnie’s initial objections), playing outside all day and staying in at night. So much for barn cats—we had housecats. Sam soon developed this wonderful personality that even I, an avowed cat hater, had to love. He never really liked being picked up (maybe he thought he was going to get thrown out of the hayloft), but he never struggled or clawed you when you did pick him up. Connor trained him that when he was holding Sam, if Sam wanted down, to lick Connor on the nose. Don’t ask me how he did it. Sam is a cool cat, a passive guy who is so laid back he has perfected the 18 hours of sleep a day. As he matured, he’d go hunting in the morning (even bagged himself a squirrel one day), and often he’d return with a mouse that he and Frodo played with, tossing the little critter in the air; it was really quite cute (except for the mouse, who eventually died of shock or the concussive effect of dozens of blows). He often caught birds as well, and we called him the Great Gray Hunter. Sam would love to curl up in your lap—but you had to sit in the recliner—and go to sleep. We’d laugh, that the recliner was Sam’s chair, and whoever sat in it (usually Donna) wasn’t allowed to disturb Sam once he dozed off, so the rest of us would get Dr. Pepper, tea, popcorn, a cookie, a book, whatever for Sam’s human cushion. He threw us a scare one day when we let him out in the morning and he got tagged by a copperhead. I raced him to the vet, and Sam was dosed with antibiotics and home that afternoon. His leg had swelled to about three times its normal size, but was looking better the next day, and Sam acted like it felt fine as he went hunting for mice. Today we say goodbye to Sam. He’s a terrific kitty whose kidneys are failing him. He’s down to less than 6 pounds and we can’t stand to see him suffer, so we’re having him put down. Connor wanted to try some experimental treatment on him “so he can be a cat again, even if just for a few days,” but he’s just too far gone. Father God, please take care of Sam, let him know we love him, and that we’ll be seeing him again. He really is a good cat—the best.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 14:37:45 +0000
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