Sam or Sammy?

He started life in the crawlspace of our office building. That building just seemed to attract strays, but there was an extra "something" about this little guy. He became special to us. A coworker named him Sam, took him home and began the process of finding Sam's forever home. After a month, the right place hadn't been found. I was grieving after having to put my sweet Oliver to rest and had sworn no more cats. I still had my first rescue, Cotton, and was determined she would now be an "only child". I am convinced my coworker was just holding onto Sam and waiting me out until I was ready. And it worked; I took Sam home just two weeks after my loss. He was about a year old at the time. Within just a couple of weeks he had taken over me and my home. He was constantly at my feet, followed me everything and refused to let Cotton anywhere near me. He wasn't content to sleep on my bed, he had to be wrapped around my shoulder with his head on my pillow. I learned the hard way that moving while Sam was asleep would bring out the fighter in him. His first year spent in the crawlspace battleground had provided excellent survival training. Everyone told me " get rid of that cat" when they saw my war wounds, but his otherwise sweet, loving disposition just wouldn't let me give up on him. The fighter settled down eventually and the clinging vine emerged. There was no greater feeling than stretching back in my recliner for a nap and having Sammy immediately jump on for the ride, stretching out a paw to gently touch my face, then falling asleep on my chest. After I'd had this beautiful boy for just over two years, the vet diagnosed him with both FIV and feline leukemia. I cried all the way on the 30 mile trip home. I'd had him and loved him for three years when the demons finally won. And I'd do it all again for his love.
Debbie K
Malden, MO