That's Sammy. AKA Sammers, The Notorious S.A.M, Sammalammadingdong, Sammerdo, and sometimes, Jerkface Magee.
Sammy is 11. Not super old for a cat. Certainly not old enough that I thought he'd be dealing with serious health issues. But there it it. Last month I noticed he'd lost a good bit of weight. He's been a big guy all his life, at one point topping the scales at 20lbs, so for me to be able to feel, well, any of his bones, I knew it wasn't a good sign. He wasn't eating either, which has happened exactly zero times for him.
To the vet we went, where we learned he'd lost 3 lbs in a month (he'd had his checkup the month prior). Bloodwork was run and we discovered his liver wasn't functioning well. We started antibiotics and liver supplements and I began feeding him wet food. With an appetite stimulant, he began eating once more. In two weeks, I felt he'd gotten better. I could no longer feel his hip bones and eat vertebrae. We took more blood and learned that, while still not in the normal range by far, his liver was working better.
I thought we were out of the woods, but he's stopped eating again. Hepatic Lipidosis is what we're deciding on. His fatness has worked against him in life despite my best efforts to get him to lose weight.
So what do we do now? I have two kids, I stay home. We can't afford to spend ridiculous amounts of money on him. After all, he's just a cat, right?
Nope. When I look at that big lug in the picture up there, and even the relatively skinny one who sits behind me on the couch (that he knows he isn't allowed on but also knows because he's sick he can get away with it), I see my buddy.
I fostered Sammy and his litter of five kittens when they were 6 weeks old. A woman came into the animal rescue I volunteered for, while my husband was on his firs deployment, and told me her husband threatened to drown the kittens if she didn't find a home for them. I'm a sucker when it comes to animals in need. So even though I already had two cats, and even though there was a strict two-pet limit in my one-bedroom apartment, I took Sammy and his four siblings home.
Toby, Chloe, Twinkie, Lucky, and Sammy. They were tiny little bundles of fear and fur. I remember having to bathe them as soon as I brought them home. One woman giving five kittens a bath. I'll give you a minute to imagine that.
Yes. It was a challenge. Their claws were sharp, their voices loud, their eyes were gunked over from conjunctivitis. Two of them, Sammy and Twinkie - the two littlest - somehow crawled underneath the cabinets and I had to entice them with food to emerge. Oh, did I mention the fleas? Yeah. They had those too.
I loved every minute of it. I kept them in a big dog kennel when I was not home or asleep because kitten tornadoes can be quite destructive when not watched. They would play and play and play and then pass out in a giant puddle of kitty. Cutest puddle around. My older cats even got into playing with them. My best buddy, Al (a cat I grew up with) would hold them down and clean their ears.
The Hubbs came home to a house with 7 cats. He wasn't super thrilled, but... hello? Kittens! Who can stay mad?
One by one, the gang were adopted. All but Sammerton. He was mine for keeps.
He snores, he sometimes drools, he sleeps on his back, he likes to sleep on my pillow (while my head is still on it), he is inexplicably good at photobombing, he's lazy, and can be a real asshole sometimes. He doesn't take shit from anyone and isn't afraid of the dogs or the kids or... really anything. Sammy does what Sammy wants, and I absolutely love that about him.
Yes. He is a cat, but he's not just a cat. He's my buddy, my Sammers, my responsibility. I will do everything I can to keep him happy and comfortable for as long as he lives.
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