Samantha

In November of 2017, Frances, our vet, phoned to tell us that Samantha, our cat, had pancreatic cancer.

I asked, “That’s usually fatal, isn’t it?”

“In Samantha’s case, it certainly will be,” Frances said set an appointment to see my wife and me two days later.

After pleasantries in her office, Frances said, “As you may know, as death approaches, cats stop grooming and eating.”

“Samantha eats less but still grooms,” Emily said.

“Despite her rough start, Samantha is now eighteen; slightly better than an average cat’s life expectancy,” Frances said. “She’s a fortunate cat and has been loved.”

“We do love Samantha,” Emily said. “However, Steve thinks she doesn’t like him, even though he rescued her.”

Frances said, “Cats are dignified and mysterious animals. We know a great deal about dogs but far less about cats. Dogs and humans have spent eons living with each other and dogs are social animals as are we.”

“Most dogs like taking orders,” I said. “I have learned that cats like giving orders — at least the cats we’ve had.”

“So do my cats,” Frances said, “You’re facing decisions concerning Samantha. Ah, where do we go from here?”

“A friend told me about having his dog euthanized,” I said. “He took the dog to the vet’s examining room and decided that he couldn’t bear watching. So he left his sick and frightened dog and asked the vet to bill him. I’ve always thought that was a lousy way to treat a dog that had provided unconditional love its entire life.”

“Around animals, people often become irrational,” Frances said. “I’ve seen too many healthy animals that should not have been put down but were, and terminal animals that should have but weren’t.”

“We’ve discussed this,” Emily said. “We want to keep Samantha at home for as long as we can. Although she’s lost weight, we haven’t seen any signs of discomfort. If we do, you’ll prescribe painkillers?”

“Cats often let us know if they are experiencing significant pain with a deep and prolonged meow,” Frances said. “If that happens or other abnormal signs appear, call me.”

“You agree with what we’re doing?” Emily’s tone was uncertain.

“I do indeed. I’ve had cats since I was a girl; most died at home and in my arms. You both are doing the right thing — it’s touching and noble.”

A month later, I was diagnosed with an enlarged prostate that triggered a tenacious urinary tract infection that required surgery, catheters, heavy drugs that made Elvis Presley movies impossible to understand. The unrelenting onslaughts to my dignity were the worst. When I got home, I was turned over to a visiting nurse who came across like an overbearing German train conductor. While I was mending, Samantha continued failing. I spent evenings sitting on the sofa reading or watching late-night television; after a week, Samantha started sleeping on the other end of the sofa. Over a short amount of time, she moved ever closer to me until she was sleeping next to me. After all the years, we were getting along.

Emily and I had rescued Samantha after she was thrown from a moving car near our home outside of Boston. At the time she was about a year old and pregnant. Her two kittens were stillborn; Samantha never recovered from her traumas that left her brittle and emotionally wobbly. Nevertheless, she was a beautiful black-and-white cat with a lithe body, long pointed ears, expressive whiskers, and limpid green eyes. Soon after rescuing Samantha, I pointed out that her past had cornered her; her anxiety led me to believe that she was not that bright.

Emily countered, “She’s beautiful. Was Grace Kelly asked about her college-board scores?”

“I’m sure that men didn’t ask and cared less.”

“Samantha resents your opinion of her.”

“My opinion?” I said. “Come on, she’s a cat.”

“She’s our special needs kitty.”And so Samantha stayed with us for the next eighteen years.

Death had been stalking Samantha and was about to embrace her. She had stopped eating and grooming. Around 1:00 AM, I was watching a film noir from the ’40s when Samantha stretched out facing me on her favorite carpet in front of the television. She had never done that before. Samantha lifted her head and locked her eyes with mine for the longest time. When a dog or a cat stares, it’s often threatening. But that wasn’t the case. Samantha was saying goodbye; I decided that she was also thanking me. With a faint sigh she put her head down and stopped breathing.

About a half hour later, Emily came out to check on me; and I said, “Samantha is gone.”

Emily checked her pulse, “We did the right thing, didn’t we?”

“We did,” I said. “She was serene and not at all frightened.”

Samantha was cremated and was buried in our garden the following summer. Although Emily and I were fairly certain that Samantha was not a Catholic, we put a statue of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, on her grave.

●●●

A couple of months later, we ran into Frances at Whole Foods. Emily had told her that Samantha had died. I described Samantha’s passing and said, “Samantha seemed to embrace death.”

“Cats will fight when threatened, but I don’t think they fear natural death,” Frances said. “I’ve held dying cats that were purring as they died.” Cats, such delightful and enigmatic creatures; the French put them in a nutshell: avec des chats que vous ne connaissez jamais.