Sam aka The Dude 2000 2004 Whats with the biting, dude? If one day we assemble a family album of pictures and remembrances, a special place will be reserved for our beloved comrade, Sam. We lost him suddenly at the age of 3, on Monday, April 26th, 2004. Kate and I are just beginning to absorb the loss. You know you have a great cat when he takes on multiple nicknames. Seldom Sam, never Samuel; sometimes The Dude; Sam-beast (credit to Kate); or my somewhat generic but heartfelt use of Buddy. He was my buddy, and I cant believe hes gone. Sam had a tough early go of it. From what we gather, he was abused, and declawed, by a couple up near Lake Berryessa, and eventually found his way to We Care, the St. Helena shelter. Curiously enough, as I recall, it was the husband who brought him in, saying the wife was the one who was bad to him. He could have easily been a lifer there; his personality, as wonderful as it was, was challenged: he had a mean streak, and would act out and bite, even us, the two people who cherished him most. Even though he loved us back, I have scars on my leg and my hand & arms to prove how fickle he could be. In fact, I think most families would have returned him after seeing how high-maintenance he was. But we stuck it out, and ended up loving him dearly despite it all. Truth be told, our lives changed drastically when he entered the scene. Our two other wonderful cats, Sassy and Taz, got kind of a raw deal, and had to cede jurisdiction of the house to him, every bit the alpha male. They hated him, basically. Every door had to be closed all the time; the office was a sanctuary for Sassy, and he pretty much ruled the inside roost. We will miss his patterns, of course. The endless hours of lounging on the chair in the living room, or on the dog yes dog bed that he commandeered from Molly, who became a cohort of sorts. The night before he died, I was working late on a project and finished up around 11; he was in the kitchen when I came in and wanted to play with a piece of green tie-wire that he had found, probably from one of my gardening outings. He would let me throw it across the floor and he would pick it up in his mouth like a retriever and bring it back to me amazing! Then wed do it again, three or four times. He would purr and get some attention and then slither off to find something else to do. He seemed happy and quite fine on his last night with us, and I thank my lucky stars that I paused in my stressful day to play with him one last time. Things like that let me know that did love me, and that you had a great life here. If only we had been fortunate enough to have you longer Kate loved him, too, and she remembers many little things Im sure. He would, however, behave a little differently (better?) with me, perhaps since I was with him so much. He would come and sit right on my chest when I was in bed and purr about a quarter inch from my face, sometimes drooling on me. Okay, maybe we dont need that much detail, but come onthere was one thing he did that still brings tears to my eyes to remember: he would come and see me in bed, early in the AM, maybe at first light, and spoon next to me, using my arm as a pillow. Wow. You cant get much better than that. Thanks, Sam. I also remember how he would stalk around the office door, ready to bolt into the wild blue Pickwick backyard yonder if given the chance. Eventually he got to go out pretty often and loved being out there. The other neighborhood cats felt about him the same way Taz and Sassy did, Im afraid. Its hard when you love your animals as much as we do and see them every day this house is as much theirs as ours. The void he left is so much bigger than his Maine Coon size would suggest. There was always this unique low talker verbiage he would use. Hardly ever one to open is mouth and actually meow, he would sort of mumble and gesture inside of his throat and let you know when it was time to feed him or if he wanted to be let out. And of course if I was inside my office and he on the other side, the loud thumping of his massive white footed paw would let me know he wanted to get outor in. Id give just about anything to see him here again, sleeping another 18-hour stretch away, complaining about this or that, taking an occasional swipe at me, then turning affectionate. Love is not rational, and his loss is so very much harder than I could have imagined. The list of memories grows: How he would actually swipe at you if you were sitting in his chair. How he would lounge by our fire and get all toasty to the touch. There are so many little memories; I hope a few can live on, like the green tie that I found from our last night together, tucked under the refrigerator, as if waiting for our next game. I tied in on a ceiling hook in the kitchen, and there it stays. He passed some time that night, and when I found him on the living room floor, he seemed peaceful and is now probably glad he has his claws back. To me, individuals are defined by their force of will, their personality, and the impact they have on those around them; the affection they generate in others. Shape, size,none of that has any bearing. We miss him like we would any person who made a huge impact in our lives, the loss made ever more acute due to the small size-big moxy ratio. Which leads me to my final point: endless speculation about whether or not we have souls, or what makes us unique beyond the physical confines of this world, is not to be answered here. But I do know this: Sam has a soul as sure as I do, as sure as mine is mourning for his, and I can only hope that he is happy, and looking upon us, pleased that we remember him, gave him a great home, sad that we are sad, but typically cat-like in his self-centeredness, off on his next adventure. Good luck, my friend. We love you.