Conference misery::feline

491.0. "Sammy" by WR2FOR::COSTELLO_KE (Kelly Costello) Mon Feb 01 1993 13:42

    I was brought up in a family that was always surrounded by wonderful 
    pets whom all lived long and healthy lives.  Cleo, our Siamese cat lived 
    to be 20.  Major, our 100 lbs black and silver German Shepherd lived to 
    be almost 13.  Present, my cherished toy poodle, 15.  Buddy, my German
    Shepherd who's my best friend in many ways, is 14 and still sleeps in 
    his bean bag beside my bed every night.  And there's Sammy.  We don't know
    how old Sammy is because the people next door got him from the pound as 
    an adult about 15 years ago, I was ten.  They had many animals.  The 
    animals were for there children to maul.  They were never allowed in the 
    house, were given food occasionally, and most were casualties of the busy 
    street that we lived on.  They never really liked Sammy, because he was 
    far too aggressive for the children.  Their kids were never taught how to 
    handle an animal properly and with care, they'd just poke and grab.  Sammy
    soon found peace at our house next door.  Even though you could hardly 
    touch him without seeing your own blood, Sammy was always kind of special.
    I guess it was because he was the only one that survived their ownership. 
    The years passed and Sammy, although always independent, became more and 
    more our cat.  Late at night you'd awake to hear his mournful meow on the 
    front porch.  "Better go pet Sammy so he'll eat it."  My dad would say.  
    Sammy would be sitting on the porch with a rat or a mouse, and would cry 
    until you came out and patted him on the head and told him how proud you 
    were of him.  As soon as you went back in, he'd be quiet.  Sammy didn't 
    like being in the house, but when we had the unusual freeze here in San 
    Jose Sammy would sleep in my bedroom with me and Buddy.  One morning, my 
    alarm went off and I sat up and started to pet Sammy, who was sleeping at 
    the foot of my bed.  I reached down to pick him up so that I could carry 
    him outside and he nearly took out my left eye.  Yep, good old Sammy, 
    you could never touch him unless he wanted to be touched.  But when he 
    did, you couldn't get rid of him.  He did love attention, when he chose. 
    Big black Sammy was the ruler of the neighborhood, a huge and beautiful 
    cat, even his war wounds flattered his appearance.

    I'm twenty five now.  My son and I live in the foothills about 15 miles 
    from my parents.  They still have Sammy, and my son calls him 'Sammy Old 
    Bones.'  My child, being brought up with animals as I was, knows to be 
    gentle and understands that Sammy is elderly.  When I went over yesterday 
    with Danny, my son, and Buddy to watch the Superbowl the attached article 
    was on the fridge.  My father told me to read it, and as I read the tears 
    began to flow.  This article was written about Sammy, perhaps not 
    intentionally, but in so many ways he is the cat they speak of.  Sammy who 
    was once 14 lbs and ruled the blocks surrounding our house, is now 5 lbs.  
    Like Felix he lives to move from one warm spot to the next.  His 
    shakey hind legs can no longer launch him up the two feet it takes to
    reach a warm car hood, so my mother always keeps hot water bottles under 
    the blankets in his bed.  No matter how much they feed him Sammy's
    weight continues to decrease.   

    It's Sammy's time for peace, and this week will be his last.  He's not at 
    ease inside a house, and he still tries to cross that busy street.  He 
    can no longer run to avoid traffic, and my parents don't want him to be 
    another casualty or feel any pain.  It's the humane thing to do for Sammy. 
    He'll take his last nap in the sun, and we'll all remember him as the 
    King of the neighborhood.
  

********************************************************************************
                 VENERABLE TOM SLOWLY YIELDS TO AGE AND ILLNESS
********************************************************************************

The old cat rises as if he is frozen in the hindquarters, dragging that part up, 
and he stretches until he trembles.  He looks confused through sets of eyelids 
that open unevenly.  Something appears to be wrong and he hunts for it, his head 
pivoting slowly on his stick of a neck.  Then he understands.  The sun has moved 
across the floor.

     Felix gathers himself and moves in  a wobbling fashion to the new patch of 
sun and falls hip first to the floor.  He rises on one leg and grooms the loose 
fur that hangs from his shrunken stomach.  Then he reclines, the eyelids folding 
in crazy sequence across apertures without focus.  His chest heaves once and he 
looks even more skeletal as his rib cage expands and collapses.  He looks 
ancient enough to be his own ancestor.

     I don't know if cats dream.  If they do, Felix has much to entertain as he 
lies there.

     I came along near the end of his grand tenure as neighborhood boss, this 
not quite six years ago, and was greatly impressed by his surly independence, 
his warrior mentality, the big nicks missing from his ears.  About this time, he 
had his last big battle with the big yellow tom for control of the fence in the 
back yard.

     Felix was opened up all down one side as Slim bundled him in a towel and we 
drove him to the veterinary hospital across town.  We didn't see the other cat 
again, so it was difficult to say who won.  But how tough was Felix?  Removed 
his own stitches.

     There is one other thing about this cat, and it is the absolute lack of 
discrimination with which he bites and claws humans.  No provocation is 
necessary.  Felix makes the rules.  He makes the peace and he breaks it.

     He was sitting in my lap one night maybe three years ago, a deeply 
contented rumble rising from  his throat.  As I scratched his ears in the manner 
that he preferred, it occurred to me that it had been a long time since he had 
attacked me.  I had the temerity to call this out.

     "You know, I think Felix and I are finally pals,"  I said to Slim.

     Almost as if on cue, I swear, he rolled over on his back and fixed my arm 
with all four sets of claws and sunk his teeth into the flesh at the base of my 
thumb.

     I screamed something profound, but we don't print remarks like those in 
your family Merc.

     There was the time he followed Slim's Mom across the room before biting the 
back of her ankle.  The time he met my youngest son for the first time, leaving 
him in bewilderment and tears.  The time he slashed open the neighbor woman's 
blouse, as she picked him up abruptly, her words, "I just love cats," hanging in 
the air like a siren winding down.

Cat lovers everywhere may cherish this independent behavior, in the abstract, 
but most of the people who know Felix personally don't like to be in the same 
side of a room with him.

     But there is something different now as the old cat dwindles.  His rich 
blue-gray coat has turned a nicotine shade.  He is becoming smaller and smaller. 
Among other ailments, including feline leukemia, he cannot hold his weight.

     He seems to sense these changes.  he eats ravenously, his instinct for 
survival still strong.  He doesn't have to wait until morning.  He gets a snack 
when he cries.  He gets eyedropper medicine down his throat.  Still, he is 
wasting away.

Felix once was king.  Maybe he dreams about that now as he lies there in his sun 
spot, recalling the glory that was his, and the many people he has know - 
exclusively on his own terms, of course.
    
    
    ***Printed without permission from the San Jose Mercury News
    

    sniffle, sniffle 

    Sigh....I just love warrior kitties and I am owned by a few!!  Your 
    tribute to Sammy was wonderful and may your entire family be
    blessed for saving his life and showing him what love is all about!
    
    Sammy will now rest in peace.....
    
    Sandy

    My youngest sister works as a veterinary assistant for a vet in the
    rural exurbs of Pittsburgh.  When we visited her last Labor Day weekend,
    she asked me if I would take a picture of the office cat, a real old timer
    named Stosh, because she wanted to something to remember his beautiful
    green eyes by.  Stosh, a crotchety old black fellow who was losing his
    fur and limped with arthritis, was slated to be euthanized Tuesday
    morning after the long weekend, only because he'd proven "difficult"
    in every failed attempt to place him in a home.  I duly took his
    picture (he does have incredible jewel-like eyes), but when I got home
    Monday night I wrote the following note to my sister:
    
    ------------------------------------------------------------------------
    
    			   Thinking about Stosh
    			   --------------------

    Too often we forget, or worse, deny, the lineage of the cats we keep as
    pets.  It is both astonishing and wonderful beyond imagining that these
    animals, kin to the most superbly designed predators this planet has ever
    seen, should deign to share their lives with us.

    I have known many cats, and have always been amazed by the diversity and
    uniqueness of their personalities.  I did not get to know Stosh; indeed,
    I only met him for a few minutes.  But Stosh's story, and especially its
    ending, gave me such pause that I could not help but consider why his
    fate so distressed me.

    Stosh's only real failing was in not fitting well into a world not of his
    own making.  And because we could not, or would not, make a place for him,
    we took his life.

    There is much in this world that is cruel and painful, and only a fool
    would let himself get sentimental about every animal crossing his path.
    Nor is it my intent to blame anyone or to try to make anyone feel guilty.
    But we must seem godlike to these animals, and that is a responsibility
    we dare not take lightly.   
     
    ------------------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Thankfully, the staff could not bring themselves to put him down for no
    better reason than their convenience.  When I last heard, he was still
    limping around the office, and my eulogy proved premature.
    
    len.
     

    len,
    
    Stosh reminds me so much of my Middy who also limps due to a crippled
    shoulder & leg.  He also has only one eye now since surgery had to be
    performed to remove right eye due to glaucoma.  He was in a lot of pain
    with that disease but now he is a happy, playful (just like a kitten
    and he's over 10 yrs.), and a very loving cat.  Middy is also black
    with white on chest and stomach.
    
    Your eulogy may not have been premature.  Perhaps Stosh's life will be
    spared and maybe live out his life at the vet's office.  I know of some
    vets in NH and MA who have done this and it's a joy to see them getting
    so much love and care by these vets and their staffs.  Of course, all
    the animals brought into a vet couldn't be kept by them but the
    majority that need homes and end up at a vet are not handicapped.  Some
    people cannot deal with handicapped animals for one reason or another.  
    
    I know I'm reading this note late but can you please post update on
    Stosh?

    The last I heard, he had in fact been spared.  My sister knew how upset
    I was about his prospects (as she was) so I'm sure she would have told
    me had anything changed since then.  I will ask again though and report
    back.  But as far as I know, the old cuss is still among the living.
    
    Stosh's problem with adoption was not so much his infirmities of old
    age as his ornery disposition; the precipitating incident was his
    snarling at and biting, though not seriously, a visitor to the office
    who pushed him past his tolerance for annoyance.  Some cats just get up
    and walk away, some annoy back.  He seemed perfectly reasonable to me
    when I met him (but then again, like most cat lovers I can sense when
    a cat has had "enough" attention), so the idea of putting him down
    for little more than his lack of docility was particularly offensive,
    especially by a veterinary staff.
    
    I would have taken him home myself, but my own master, Merlin, at the
    age of 17 has grown so totally possessive of me that it would not have
    been fair to either Stosh or Merlin.
    
    len.
    

    I spoke to my sister last night, and time finally caught up with
    Stosh.  Their best guess was that he was well in excess of 20 years
    old, and despite his Labor Day reprieve, over the next few months he
    developed serious tooth and gum problems that left him unable to eat.
    Several unsuccessful interventions were tried, and finally, it was
    concluded that the best thing for him was The Last Nap.  So Stosh
    was euthanized, for the right reasons, sometime during the week of
    Christmas, when my sister wasn't working.
    
    Knowing how much she cared about him, they didn't tell her, so she had
    the unfortunate experience of returning to work after the New Year and
    finding him in the freezer, waiting to be taken off to be cremated.
    She took his body home and buried him in her back yard, where I will
    visit him the next time I am down there.
    
    len.
     

    re.:0
    			rip all the sammies
    
    
    			we all are kings
    			we all get old
    			we all shall go
    			we'll all have peace
    
    
    re.: Euthanasy
    
    Yes, if it is needed, yes, yes of course. Do not let anyone in
    unnecessary pain. No, if it is not needed. The decision is hard to
    make, but sometimes it must be made. But if you make this decision,
    think it well over, is it a real need or just your own convenience? For
    you can not be sure, what if someone up there thinks it over just *now*
    to put *you* down?
    
    
    Nat