4.17.22 :: So Sammy Together

I can't see me lovin’ nobody but you
for all my life.

When you’re with me baby the skies’ll be blue
for all my life.

--

Sammy came into my life as a tiny, timid thing, in a blue, reusable shopping bag. It was a summer Tuesday at Tufts. I had just come home from a sunburnt Memorial Weekend in Nantucket, my legs still stinging from biking around the bogs. My colleague Mari Anne came through the side door next to my desk and whispered, “Kristin, come here.” I walked around the cubicle wall, peeked into the open bag, and there was the face that launched a thousand ships. Round moon eyes that would reflect her glow in the darkness, that would look up at me in hunger, curiosity, impatience, that would dare me to come closer from behind the safety of a hot pink feather toy or doorframe, that would eventually never close, even after her heart had stopped beating.

Our baby girl was most likely born in a Somerville bush or backyard in mid-April of 2011. Mari Anne said her neighbor had seen a cat crossing Powderhouse Boulevard carrying one kitten after another in her mouth. How she made it safely with such precious cargo over the wide, busy street, I’ll never know. But, that night, Mari Anne came home to see two eyes staring at her from the porch steps. A black bundle of fur, the size of a clementine, was huddled tightly. Its body faced the step; its eyes gazed at Mari Anne from over its shoulder. It was a look I would come to crave and melt for.

Mari Anne waited a while to see if Sammy’s mom was coming back. She didn’t. Inside the apartment, Mari Anne fed her tuna from a fingertip and watched her sleep in the laundry basket.

--

That first morning, I thought “she” was a “he”. When I called the Cummings School to schedule a free checkup, I called her Sam, picked up the box she had been living in under Mari Anne’s desk, took the rest of the day off, and hit the road. “Sam” didn’t stay put at first, crawling all over me as I hurdled down 90. Eventually, she nestled into the v between my back and the seat. I was terrified of crashing, of pancaking her in a Camry, but we made it through the toll booth to Grafton.

When we arrived, I didn’t know there were separate dog and cat sides to the waiting room. Only that she was making everyone’s day. I sat with the pups and cuddled her close, using the shopping bag as a blanket. She slept on my chest, instantly safe and loved. In the exam room, he was confirmed to be a she, I got a crash course in owning a pet, and, suddenly. . .

I was a mom.

My bedroom was a labyrinth of new corners and smells and textures for Sammy to explore. She hid under the IKEA bathroom storage-turned-nightstand while I went out to stock up on supplies. But as soon as I settled in for a little bit she came out to play, scaling the mattress sides and attacking the yarn skeins. She used the small, round litter box from day one, pawing at the wooden floor to cover her business, my perfect MENSA girl.

I remember our early sleeps so clearly, because I didn’t get any. I lay on my side, the slats in the shade filtering the streetlight, listening for steps sticky with claws on the sheet, waiting for two cub paws to appear over the side of the bed—a prelude to the sweetest kitten face. She cuddled into my free arm, as she would for the decade to come, and should I deign to move or adjust my stiff limbs, she meowed—the shortest, laser-gun shot in the dark—licked my chin or nose, and went back to sleep. They were some of the best nights of my life.

--

Whistling became our thing. She hated when I sang or played my French horn. Would try to climb into my hair and bite my face. But when I whistled, she came running—and kneading and purring and suckling my shirt. That first teal v-neck from NY&Co. was soaked on the shoulder every night, so I weaned her onto my childhood companion: Blankie. Once cream and pastel rainbow-colored, now drab and gray as though she’d gone through a Dickensian rinse cycle, Blankie was my first best friend. She came with me to college, study abroad, even grad school. There’s nothing like a perfectly worn, familiar sidekick, and she was Sammy’s almost instantly.

Climbing over rocky mountain
Skipping rivulet and fountain
Passing where the willows quiiiiiiver…

My girl loved Gilbert and Sullivan. As soon as the first calls of that silly Pirates ditty rang out, she would hop onto the bed, pad along my limbs and torso, and settle onto my chest for quality biscuit-making time. Over the years, as Blankie’s stamina unraveled, more crochet nubs appeared ripe for midnight snacking and making her all the more delicious. In the end, she was an octopus of a knot, held and felled by her many holes and tentacles. But Sammy loved her all the more. Blankie was the smell of my cheek, Sammy’s kisses, thousands of our warm, sleepy hours. She was us.

--

Our nighttime routine was as predictable as the British rail system. Whistling for biscuits. Kitten kisses straying back and forth from fur to skin. Netflix on our side, with Sammy draped over the left arm; the right absently stroking her length.

Lights out.

Hours later, a paw taps the face, threatening claws should the sleeper fail to wake and roll into position. Eyes closed, a dead arm lifts the comforter so the terrorist can crawl into her spot, circle, and settle—head on the forearm, legs akimbo around the hand, front paws in the armpit. Kisses ensured until sleep resumes. 

--

When Dr. Simonelli called with the cancer diagnosis, I knew: Blankie and Sammy would be cremated together. If I couldn’t go with her, and oh how I wanted to, she couldn’t be alone.

--

If I have any regrets about my baby girl, it’s the time that I did leave her alone. She had two brothers that first year: ginger Bailey and tabby Tucker. How she loved her Tucker. So many of her traits she inherited from him and his cinnamon swirl spirit. My favorite: her chatter.

When we moved to the apartment on Church Street, the living room window overlooked the big driveway and tall trees that eventually came down after a freak hurricane a couple of years ago. A brazen squirrel entertained us last summer, camping out on top of the air conditioner. But birds were always the favorite. Trying to imitate their calls, but sounding absolutely nothing like any species you’ve heard, Sammy would crouch down, stalk them with laser focus, and release a series of high ticks from the back of her teeth. If I could wrap that up in a ring tone . . .

On warm days I would leave the window open. When I came home from work, my very own Juliet was waiting for me, framed in ivy and brick, and I eagerly called up to see how her day was.

“Hi, baby girl!”

“Meow.”

“Did you have a good day?”

“Meow.”

“Did you miss Mumma?”

“Meow.”

A pause. A head nod to the front door. And like lightning she was there. 

I couldn’t get the key in fast enough. She often cried until the door opened, a hair from hitting her in the face. She always pulled back just in time, before raising her head for thumb-nose scratches and head-to-tail caresses.

The top of the stairs was our customs exit, where I massaged her with both hands, one over the other so she felt an endless rub along her back. She leaned into the fingers I strummed along her cheeks. I kissed her proud rump while on my hands and knees and she paced around before coming back for more. At the end of it all, she would fall to her side on the carpet and arch her neck, waiting for me to stroke the perfectly soft underside of her chin, the full length of her silky body.

And, if she would tolerate it, the tops of her feet.

Feet were our favorite. After a shower, I would step onto the bathmat and wait for my little miss to have a soapy snack, licking all of the water off my shins and feet. I could only stand it for a minute or two before I would dry off. She’d hop on the toilet and watch me apply whatever lotion or potion came next, her black paws at attention on the lid.

the photo that inspired a tattoo 💓

In a certain light, her toes came to a rounded point, like a jester’s slippers. I loved how prettily, how perfectly, she would place each foot as she scaled the peaks and valleys of our apartment every day. In the mornings, it was always the dresser. What paw could destroy which breakable to wake Mumma up. 

At night, it was the fridge. Floor to butcher block to fridge top to inspect which can—fish or fish?—was headed to the bowl. 

During the day, it was the desk or the couch to make sure I was clocking in. Her nose would tip up first to decide . . . hop from the floor, or take the tree? Sitting on the closed laptop, she would follow the mouse arrow across the monitor; from the couch arm, she would follow me. Staring for hours. The end of her tailed draped across her ankles. Her head at a tilt that said: Really?

--

That the cancer was so aggressive doesn't surprise me when I look back. My girl did nothing in half measures. When she played, she played hard. And having grown up with me instead of other kittens, she didn't know her strength or sharpness. My shoulder is like an old baseboard, scuffed and scraped by hundreds of forced bear hugs and scared vet visits and eager launches to a safer perch. My hands are a map of playtime, from the top step she would crouch behind, eyes in full moon for maximum guitar pick hunting, to the landing where she would scurry and watch as I did laser pointer and raccoon puppetry gymnastics, mostly to no avail, to the fresh sheets she would slide into while I made the bed and teased her with tickling fingers, to the tree in the bedroom where she would hide behind the scratching post or ramp for a neon feather or string to poke its head where it shouldn't. (Or should.)

Her tail was a traffic light I often ignored or tempted, and my skin happily wears the fines. I would pay triple for her to be back in the cardboard box, unblinking, waiting patiently for Mumma to come play. 

--

You know how parents are biased about their perfectly normal children being the most brilliant, the most beautiful, the most special beings on the planet? Sammy was the most beautiful thing in the world, and I will sumo wrestle anyone who fights this.

I could easily win a duel with Mr. Darcy over the most intense gaze cast across a room. That Muppet face would pop up from behind a step, around a corner, and my inevitable Care Bear stares of love could have blown apart the space-time continuum.  

In the morning light, her black coat shone like diamonds, an endless rainbow of colors glinting brightly in what is often mistaken for a monochrome palette. With my glasses off, I have expert X-ray vision, ideal for digging into blackheads. Also an asset when admiring the millions of microscopic nodules on a cold, wet kitten nose. Each blemish on the pink pads of her paws. The organically manicured lawn of her soft ears.

My inspections almost always earned some rueful side-eye, especially if she was compressed into her comfiest donut curl. An eye would crack open, dilate as I moved in for a string of fat kisses, and, once I had faded into the background of Netflix and iPhone, gratefully close with the slight contempt and resignation all smothered children bear.

--

The toilet isn’t the most communal spot, for most. But I haven’t gone to the bathroom alone at home for over a decade. When friends come over, I’m always surprised when I’m locked in by damp hands and the sticky door. You have to turn the knob and pull down to escape. I forget. 

With Sammy, when doors were closed in our apartment, carpet was furiously ripped up, paint was scratched, and desperate cries ripped the air—and my heart—in half. Sometimes you want to pee in peace. But I got so used to having a little warm body huddled against my shins, once to the left, once to the right, then parked at the bathroom entrance lest invaders enter our home.

A shoddy screen door from Home Depot was erected for a week in the fall of 2016 when an unexpected guest arrived.

Ginger was supposed to be a two-week babysitting job, but became, as I had always suspected she would, the old lady of the house. Interlopers had come before her, namely a very affectionate Siberian blue I had rescued from a few streets down and naively thought my firstborn would embrace (as one should every refugee). But, alas, Sammy’s protests were relentless, my will was weak, and Stoli was adopted by a mother and son who declared my apartment to be “very dark” as I gave them the ten-cent tour—and a cat for life.

Poppa and Grammie Hansel and Gretel’d Ginger into their home with food and treats ten or so years ago, and I knew, almost from the moment I met her, this girl is going to be mine someday. The sixth cat lady sense. Sammy was not pleased. Slightly larger in size and monstrously dominant in personality and territory, she needed no excuse to bap Ginger on the head.

Mumma is kissing my back. Scoot over.

Mumma is feeding me wet food. Get lost.

This is my window.

This is my spot on the floor.

This is my lap.

What. Are you doing under the comforter . . . ?

And, yet, when the two took a trip to the vet together and began traveling to Ohio much to Sammy’s fright, whom did she press herself against when Mumma’s belly wasn’t free to turtle shell into? Whose crate did she crawl into? Whose side was she sure to stick to for hours at a time?

I like to imagine a treaty was signed by two wary, weary opponents while I was at work. Sammy’s demands: I get what I want, when I want. Ginger’s: OK.

--

It’s been a month since she left us, and a day doesn’t go by where I don’t feel like an entrance to a cold cave has opened in my chest with no way of damming up. I cry a lot. I look at objects that only hold importance because she touched them. I long for all the grievances she once caused: litter pebbles in the bed, full water glasses smashed on the hardwood floor, pock marks in favorite shirts, a stubborn anchor on my restless legs at bedtime, a stubborn alarm in my ears at dawn. 

Sometimes, I see movement out of the corner of my eye, a balled-up black sweatshirt on the bed, and think she’s there. She’s not.

She died.

It’s the first thought I have every morning and the last before I fall asleep. She always needed to have some part of her touching me when she dozed off. At least a paw. And I never realized I needed the same until she wasn’t there.

To say I miss her is to say there are stars in the sky. I’m at over 2,000 words and I could go on forever. But before I let a year go by, I want to savor and share at least a few of the good memories for everyone—and, of course, myself. I’ll never forget her, but time is a thief and we often don’t know what it’s stealing until it’s gone.

I’ll keep posting. And I hope you’ll keep reading. With each photo I've added here, I think: There are so many better ones. With each memory I've shared, the trail goes on until I'm lost in eleven years of details I want to trap in this type to hold onto forever, but can't possible convey with only words.

So, for now, here are some songs for Sammy that speak so eloquently to the love I have for her, all I would give to hold her again. The rocky mountains that will always have me running for nighttime kisses.

Once a Sandwich. Always Mumma’s Best Girl. Sammy, you have my whole heart for my whole life.

In the night I lie and look up at you

when the morning comes I watch you rise

There's a paradise that couldn't capture

that bright infinity inside your eyes