No cat, in the History of Cat, has ever been boring.
The smallest kitten is a museum of enigmas.
So, naturally, a cat as large as Sam swells with surprises.
Sam is … a gentleman of size. This has little to do with poundage. It is a mere coincidence that he outweighs most loveseats.
If Sam and a seventh grader got on a seesaw, the tween would go airborne.
If Sam swaggered into a Red Lobster, the manager would declare an emergency suspension of Endless Shrimp so as to avoid going bankrupt.
But Sam’s enormity is about essence, not ounces. He is too sumptuous to summarize.
Sam is the sum total of everyone he has ever loved, from the “mom” he still misses, to the multitudes who mush him like snuggly Silly Putty at Tabby’s Place.
He is glad to be here, except when gladness and madness arm-wrestle and madness plays dirty.
He is poetry, coconut meringue, and all things soft and lovely, except when he is a thundercloud raining hyenas and dinosaurs.
Sam is complicated. Sam is chonky with contradictions.
Just consider two equally true observations recorded in a single week of Sam History:
“This cat deserves the gold medal in purring.”
“This cat is very violent at times.”
There is a reason the cat as white as a cream puff wears a collar the color of fire. Sam can canoodle like a cannoli on legs, and Sam can snap into you like a Slim Jim. Sam cannot tell you precisely when the cuddling will end and the combat will begin.
His orange collar informs onlookers that he is “spicy” and unpredictable.
The laughter in his eyes insists he is perfect and unafraid.
In the wrong hands, Sam might be labeled “difficult.” Fortunately, the wrong hands are too small to contain Sam. The wrong hands are brittle little things that can only handle stuffed animals with unblinking plastic eyes.
Our hands are all a little scratched up at Tabby’s Place. We know how it feels to be bitten by teeth and loss. We are real, live animals, too. We don’t always make the best decisions when we are afraid, or when dinner is eight minutes delayed and now it is nine minutes late AND NOW IT IS TEN AND I shall pour forth the wine of my fury into the cup of my wrath, vengeance is mine, I will repay!!!
Ahem. Did I mention Sam can type? Dinner is coming, Sam. I promise.
So, we will treasure Sam from his teeth to his tenderness, and all the way to his tail, twitching while he dreams. (Sam’s dreams include: hunting elk, hugging every person on Earth at least thrice, and going out for mozzarella sticks with all five Backstreet Boys. Hey, I don’t make this stuff up.)
To love a cat is to love him just the way he is. Anything else is featherweight.
Conditional love is more false than fat-free feta. To be fully alive is to be massive with majesty and messiness, every inch an angel and an imp.
Sam is in good hands at Tabby’s Place, and they get larger every time we look at them.
Holding all the sides of Sam in love’s embrace is like hugging a bouquet that is still growing. His mystery and his muchness have much to teach us.
He will be patient with us.
Except when he will be impatient with us.
He is, after all, a gentleman of size.