Samantha, a rescue tuxedo cat.
When she first came into my home, I made the rookie mistake of picking her up before she was ready.
She didn’t know me and she came from the mean streets of Queens.
At the adoption place they considered her beyond anything but feral,
But here she was. 8 months old ish.
She hid in my apartment after I tragically picked her up.
Under the stove.
For 2 weeks, I put tuna on my fingers and let her sniff and lick it up.
The 3rd week, she was out from underneath the stove and next to me as a friend.
Our relationship grew from there.
She was my ride or die.
For everything.
We enjoyed Huggies and kisses.
Especially this past year when I would come home so distraught because of a day in the hospital with my dad.
Sammy was there. And she understood.
If you think an animal doesn’t understand your pain, you’re not connected to that animal.
When my dad died I didn’t cry. Because I had been processing his death in real time.
And I could go and bury my face in Sammy’s black and white fur.
Because she was my BFF.
She got me through the death of my dad.
Now that she’s gone it’s hard for me.
I cried more for her than I did him.
Maybe because I made the decision to end her pain.
I maybe coupled these tragedies.
Theres guilt involved on both fronts.
I could’ve been there more for my dad, I could’ve done more for Sammy.
In the end I hope I did the right thing.
I think I did.
