THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 22, 1996 TAG: 9609180036
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K3 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL MOMENTS
SOURCE: BY LORRAINE WILCHER
LENGTH: 72 lines
THE KITCHEN FLOOR is one of those old ones that needs waxing. Permanently embedded in the years of wax build-up are thousands of spidery scar marks from Sam's claws digging in for support as we feverishly chased each other.
But that was many years ago. When we chase now, which is rarely, he can only skitter along. And we never make it out to the kitchen.
Sam is gray around the muzzle now. His once-magnificent feline body, svelte and muscular, is now pudgy-soft. When outstretched, he looks like a stuffed sausage ready to burst. He limps slightly from arthritis. His large, azure blue eyes once smoldered with unquenchable curiosity and a fearless spirit. Now he contentedly sleeps away most of his days.
Sam has lost much of his hearing. I've tried vainly to find a hearing aid for cats.
Often I feel Sam's eyes on me. Sometimes he quizzically watches me as I work. Sometimes he glows, love for me filling his eyes. And sometimes our eyes lock - and bore silently into each other's. I'll make it a game by matching him blink for blink.
Other times I wordlessly beckon him to follow me to another room. There, we sometimes play a chasing game of hide-and-seek, depending on how energetic we feel. After all, we've grown 13 years older together.
Sam is not cat-like. Especially when it comes to eating. He enjoys crunching down on potato chips. And he eats bananas. He's crazy about spaghetti sauce and pizza. Really, anything in a dish, cupboard, or trash can is fair game.
And he's clueless about cleanliness. Aren't cats supposed to be finicky about keeping themselves clean? Not Sam. He rolls around in the dirt and then saunters into the house with debris coating his fur.
He's even dog-like in some ways. In earlier years he often welcomed me home from work by running to meet my car. We developed a ritual. Turning my car into the driveway, I braked and opened my door, and Sam leaped in. Together we coasted down the driveway and into the garage.
No stranger to illness, Sam once nearly died from a blood disorder - one previously diagnosed only in dogs.
During another illness he nearly underwent risky surgery when his asthma was incorrectly diagnosed as a throat obstruction.
Then, there was the time I ran over him with my car.
Sam had been outside playing. I needed to run an errand. As I always do, I checked repeatedly under and around the car. Hoping he'd show up so I could safely deposit him in the house, I called his name. No show. Checking one last time, I hopped in the car and backed out. Then came shrill screams of pain. Fearful of overreacting and causing worse harm, I cautiously inched the car forward. Then I rushed out to the driveway. There lay fawn brown tufts of Siamese fur. But no sign of Sam. I knelt and wept. I located him later, but not until after midnight. I rushed him to an emergency clinic. Sam recovered eventually. Incredibly, no marks remain on his body.
Sam is legendary on our block for his neighborliness. Years ago he regularly visited a neighboring beagle. Actually, Sam learned he could get inside his buddy's house, sniff out the dog food, and gobble it down. Now Sam's old-age problems leave him fearful of other animals. When he's outside, I keep my ears tuned for any noise indicating he's in trouble with another animal.
Sam himself isn't entirely angelic. Like people, he has a dark side. But his once fierce temper now flares up merely as grumpiness. His fangs no longer break my skin. They just leave indentations. When sleeping, Sam and I still share a pillow at night. He snuggles next to me with his head and neck resting on he pillow. When younger, he often placed an outstretched foreleg and paw protectively across my shoulder and neck.
I've been looking forward to replacing that old kitchen floor. But those scarred marks will be replaced too, won't they? One day they'll no longer present a visible reminder of my wild, crazy Sam and the life we've shared. MEMO: Lorraine Wilcher is a student at Old Dominion University. She
lives in Portsmouth with her husband Ray, Sam and her other ``pseudo''
children, cats Hedwig and Buster. by CNB