Chapter One: WE BECOME A NEW FAMILY

It was early winter 2003 when Sandy came into our home. As noted above her picture to the right, she was my Father's cat and five years old when he adopted her from an animal shelter five years earlier. My Father had a stroke in the fall of 2003. I made daily or semi-daily visits to his house while he was in hospital. I'd go there after visiting him. I'd change her box, check and refill her food and water and generally keep her company. Mostly, I'd just sit with her. She seemed to enjoy that most. She was always very much a quintessential lap cat. Unfortunately, my father couldn't brush or comb her well enough or often enough which created mats in her already thick fur that could only be removed by picking them apart piece by piece. Each time I was at his house, I'd sit with her in my lap and she let me painstakingly remove little knots and mats of fur. Oh, she hissed a few times. After all, it probably hurt a bit. Overall, however, I think she welcomed it because her purrs far outweighed any hisses. It took weeks. Eventually, by the time she was as smooth as silk I had enough fur to make almost another full cat.

It was at dusk when I'd have to leave and return home that hurt both of us the most. Sitting in the same chair where I brushed her and in that Buddha pose with her feet tucked under her belly she looked so sad and forlorn. Through welling tears I'd reassure her, "You be a good girl, now. I'll see you maybe tomorrow or the next afternoon at the latest." I always left more lights on for her than I knew my father thought necessary, and I knew her eyesight in the dark was better than most any humans. But I couldn't bear the thought of her in an empty house with only a few nightlights plugged into wall outlets.

Staring at me as I stood at the door as if to say, "Where are you going?" was what tore me apart. I cried when I'd leave my father at the hospital and I cried when I left Sandy at his house. After a few weeks of this, she, sadly, became accustomed to this behavior pattern of ours. Her farewell look at me then became more of, "Okay. I know I'll see you again. I'll just wait here till you come back". And that is usually exactly what she did. The next time I returned, I'd find her in the same chair she was when I left before. She wouldn't jump down immediately, fearing I might be a stranger. But once she heard my voice or saw me, she'd fly as fast as her short little legs could fly over to my targeted ankles for more than just a cursory rub. This was an ankle rub generated out of loneliness and being desperately glad to see me again. She would raise her paw to be picked up and purr louder than any cat I'd ever known. She'd lift that paw even when the tumors on her belly became too painful for her only a few days before her passing. But I dared not put pressure on her to pick her up, which of course, broke my heart. It didn't stop me, though, from getting down to her level and petting her soft fur. And that purr! That purr remained as loud as ever.

The initial plan had been that after my father recovered, he would return home with either a full-care or part-time care healthcare professional. How long that might take, no one seemed certain. But my routine visits to care for Sandy as well as taking care of my father's affairs would willingly be done as long as necessary. I kept telling her he'd come back to his little girl as soon as he felt better. Sadly, he was never pronounced well enough to do that even with full-time healthcare. He was transferred from the hospital to a nursing home. How long he'd be there was equally uncertain. Eventually, it became necessary to sell his house. In addition to the painful task of breaking that news to him there was also our mutual concern for Sandy's well being if strangers (realtors, buyers, etc.) started traipsing through the house when I wasn't there. Already a painfully shy cat, I knew that kind of intrusion would deeply affect her.

I was adamant with the real estate agent to take special care when coming to the house and that no way would Sandy be removed from her home during this process. He had to promise the front door would be kept closed after his comings and goings.

Her journey and mine, however, would alter courses after the very first multiple-listing open house. I'd come to my father's house about an hour after the last realtor left, and I couldn't find Sandy anywhere. I was terrified she'd gotten out. I called the realtor in charge and he assured me that when he left she was still in the house. After a frantic search of every nook and cranny in the house and the surrounding property, I finally found her underneath the guest bed scrunched against the wall at the very top of the bed when the flashlight bounced off her glowing green eyes. Not even my voice, nor temptings of brushing or cat treats could entice her out. So I sat outside in the living room and just sang to myself hoping my voice might soothe and eventually coax her out. It worked. She appeared at my feet, quizzically looking at me, "Oh, it's you! You're here.", and jumped up in my lap for her usual brushing. I cried and rocked her just thinking at how terrified and frightened she must have been hearing all those strange voices and feet clomping through her house. After we both calmed down enough and she'd reached her brushing quota, she jumped from my lap for some, obviously, overdue and much needed food and water. I'd no idea how long she had been hiding under that bed. It was then that I immediately called my husband.

I told him to clean out the den, get down one of our cat, Tyler's, old litter boxes and some of his bowls and arrange everything in the den. "Make sure Tyler's in the bedroom and close the door when you hear me drive up", I instructed him. I had no doubt in my mind what not only had to be done at that moment but what I wanted to do and what she needed. Not that it matters, but to this day I still don't know or really care which was the stronger motivation. "I'm bringing Sandy home," I declared. From that moment on she'd be living with us until she joined my father in the assisted living quarters I was arranging for him.

By Christmas my father was still in the nursing facility so my husband, our cat, Tyler, and I celebrated our first Christmas with Sandy in our home. We were a family of four then if only for a short period of time I thought. Tyler was slowly - very slowly - introduced to her. She was kept in the den behind closed doors while he had the full range of the house since, after all, it was his house long before it became hers, too. He was allowed to sniff under the door at 'who that strange cat was in there'. Occasionally, we'd crack the door a bit so they could actually see each other. All of this was done in increments. A little larger crack of the door each time and open for a little longer each time time; until finally, they were allowed full cat-to-cat contact. Tyler, by that time declining in health, was admittedly and rightfully upset. Yet, true to his perennial nature, he remained non-plused and blasé effecting an attitude of "Oh, it's that one you've been talking about. Yeah, yeah, I know her whole sad story and that her real Dad's sick and, well, I guess you've got no choice but to take her in. Not like I'd want you to kick her out in the cold or anything. So ...I suppose it's okay."

Initially he just 'tolerated' her. She seemed well aware that she was - for the moment - a guest and behaved like the we all wish guests would behave. Being timid and recognizing that Tyler was the Alpha male here, she aqcuiessed to his every whim, move and mood. Occasionally she'd jump or sit on one of his favorite spots, but he'd just walk around her and she'd scootch over a bit to allow him the lion's share of space.

After finally deciding upon one assisted living facility out of the five or so that accommodated pets, my husband and I spent that Christmas week and right through New Year's Eve moving all of my father's furniture into the small apartment and setting everything up. I remember hanging blue curtains above the window while snow began to fall outside. It was a pretty little place and close to our home so that I could be there at a moment's notice for him and take care of Sandy, too, or take her to the vet if necessary. I'd even constructed a platform for her to climb and eat so that my Dad wouldn't have to bend over and fill her bowl.

But my Father was never destined to live in or even see his beautiful, new apartment and share it with his Sandy. Nor would he ever even see Sandy again. He developed pneumonia and another intestinal infection while at the nursing facility and was sent to the hospital in late January. He never left the hospital. He remained there until early March. We got the call at 5:00am on a Saturday morning that we should come as quickly as possible if we wanted to say good bye to him. I knew this would be the last time I'd speak with him. To the eyes and senses of others he was unconscious of his surroundings and unable to know who was there or who wasn't. But I knew differently. I knew he was well aware of my presence and anything I said to him. I knew he would still be aware even during those last moments as I held his hand, stroked his hair from his forehead and assured him "It's okay now. Go to Mommy, Daddy. Don't worry about Sandy. We'll always take care of her. She'll be our little girl now".

I'd like to think that as my Father closed his eyes for the last time along with the peace and comfort of knowing he'd see my Mother once again, that God allowed him a certain peace and comfort by knowing that his Baby Girl would be taken care of and loved for the rest of her life.

And she was.