Sammy

We laid Sammy to rest on Tuesday morning. Dr. Grant came to the house the previous night to administer the sodium thiopental, which I now know is one of the drugs used for lethal injections on death row criminals. To us, it seemed criminal that our little guy – a flame point Siamese with impossibly light-blue eyes and cream-colored fur – was leaving us so soon, too soon. We’d adopted him at a pet store eight years ago and adored him every single day of those eight years.

He lay quietly in the plush, circular bed Hugo had bought for him at a pet store, which shared a parking lot with the vet clinic we loathed visiting. Dr. Grant – or David as we’d come to know him from seeing him way too often because we’d chosen aggressive chemotherapy to treat Sammy’s intestinal lymphoma – first administered a heavy sedative which within seconds caused our baby’s head to sink further down into the bed. (I’ll never get that image out of my head – ever.) There was no turning back. He had nodded off already, sleep the painless prelude for the inevitable tidal wave of pain Hugo and I would somehow have to endure.

From first needle to the second, I was holding the kitty bed on my lap, my hand tucked inside it stroking Sammy nervously, lovingly, letting him know that we were there to the very end, needing to feel the warmth of his body a final time. “I love you, Sammy. We love you, Sammy.” Occasionally, I would bend forward to kiss the top of his head, the head I’d caressed in my hands countless times so I could stare into his eyes and wonder what he might be thinking as he stared back into mine. I couldn’t bear to look at Hugo, who was too choked with grief to speak, his face pink and wet. I loved him so much in that moment. How could I feel so alive when death was so near for something we deeply cherished? For Hugo especially, Sammy was more than just a bratty, blue-eyed beast with a cashmere belly and irresistible nature. He was a reminder of a happier chapter in our lives. Hugo’s mother was with us then, cooking us scrumptious meals every weekend, her laughs echoing throughout the house. Back then, chronic heart disease was someone else’s disease, not Hugo’s. Sammy was a refuge from life’s unpredictable cruelties – what would be our salvation now? 

We buried him the next morning, Tuesday. It was cold and overcast. The day before – the very long day before when we had to wait until Dr. Grant arrived – we’d dug a three-foot-deep space in our garden, next to the patch of ornamental bamboo Sammy loved to munch on while I sipped coffee and kept a close eye on him. As Hugo and I tossed fresh rose petals into the cool, muddy opening in the ground, I would see Sammy everywhere. There he was, traipsing atop the deck railing, or lapping water from the “froggy fountain,” or flat-out ignoring my pleas to not wander under the deck. Oh, how much richer our lives are because of him.