May 21, 1986
This is Sam’s time of year. Sam is our orange and white feline whose resemblance to the picture on the Purina Cat Chow box is uncanny.
Sam was three years old when we answered an ad in the classifieds for a neutered, declawed cat. That was six years ago.
Since then he has claimed my Great Aunt Mary’s cane rocking chair and from that vantage point watches his world revolve.
In winter he sometimes will seek out a heater or curl up in front of the refrigerator vent – moving only if he finds his tail under someone’s shoe or if the puppy gets too playful.
His disposition, to say the least, is docile. He adjusts to company easily – always picks out the lap of the person who dislikes cats the most – shows interest in family activities only at Christmas when he eats the tinsel off the tree, and never complains when bonnets are placed on his head and he is pushed around the house in a doll carriage.
However, come spring this sleepy house cat thinks he is the cat’s meow. At least one eye is always open waiting for a chance to dart out an open door and chase every butterfly and bird in the yard.
Even if he catches a chipmunk he puts it down so the chase can continue. For at least four months out the year we feel as if we are in the midst of a Tom and Jerry movie.
This usually easy to apprehend animal suddenly can evade everyone’s grasp and only will return to the house at the sound of his food being rattled in the box. He seems to always be creeping out from under a bush, dashing into the woods or sniffing every new flower that blooms.
A few years ago a friend gave me a book titled “How to Live With A Calculating Cat.” The conclusion is what I’ve know all along – Just endure and enjoy. We will never own a cat, he will always own us.