Sammy: Protector of Mice

I grew up hating cats. Despising them, in fact. What was there to like? They were rude, not affectionate and completely aloof animals. And what was the deal with their rough little sandpaper tongues? They were just gross, in my opinion.

Back then, dogs were the only animal I deemed worthy of adoption. Clearly, they were the better pet. Better companions, more loyal, friendlier- dogs could do no wrong in my eyes. However, living in a somewhat small apartment in Philadelphia, I wasn’t exactly in the place to adopt a dog, despite having wanted one since I was a child. I didn’t think it would be fair to the animal to bring it to a small apartment where it would feel cramped and not able to run free in a yard.

Truth be told, I hated mice even more than I hated cats. Unfortunately for me, having just moved to Center City, Philadelphia, I was in for quite the rude awakening when I realized that mice were EVERYWHERE! They practically owned the city, scurrying about right in the open as if they had nothing to fear and humans were the ones who were invading their territory.

Though I must admit, mice didn’t really become a problem for me until I started seeing them IN MY APARTMENT! I couldn’t handle it. I started scrubbing the place immaculately every day, convinced that if I could just used enough bleach, surely this wouldn’t be an issue anymore- until I realized it wasn’t even my apartment that was the problem!

I had this neighbor who was a VERY nice man, however, he was a legit hoarder and a complete slob. The other tenants and I in the building had various conversations about him, because thanks to him, we were all having problems with mice. We spoke to the landlord and voiced our frustrations and concerns, though he failed to take action, claiming he was a loyal tenant who could keep his apartment however he saw fit and it was none of our business. The best he could do, he said, was bring in an exterminator. Which he did, though it didn’t really do much of anything.

I hit my breaking point in October 2009. I had worked a lunch shift and came home to perform my usual ritual of scrubbing my apartment to pristine-ness. Afterwards, I decided to reward myself with a nice glass of red wine. I sat down, sipping my Malbec and finally beginning to relax when out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something dart across the floor, under my couch.

I told myself I was paranoid and reached for the remote next to me when I realized I was NOT in fact paranoid and there was a mouse scurrying around…. IN MY COUCH CUSHIONS! I screamed, jumped about a hundred feet (ruining my beige couch in the process by spilling red wine all over myself and it) and ran out of the room. I immediately called the guy I was dating at the time and told him I was coming over, because there was no way I could sleep in that apartment that night.

Fast forward to the next morning when I was chatting with a co-worker who had gone through a similar problem years’ prior. She mentioned that even though she was allergic to cats and couldn’t keep one, she kept some cat food in a dish outside for a couple of strays and that seemed to do the trick. Living in an area where there were plenty of stray cats, I figured this might be my only option.

After work that day, I went to a neighborhood pet store and began chatting with a friendly salesgirl. I explained the situation. She led me over to a small room where there was a small tuxedo kitten sleeping peacefully, with his tail curled over his nose. Before I could clarify that I was just there for food for outside cats, I didn’t want to adopt one, I thought, “He looked so sweet, so still” but… really? I couldn’t possibly adopt a cat, could I? My brain was telling me no, but before I could stop myself, I found myself asking, “What’s the deal with this little guy? Is he spoken for? What’s his name?”

“Oh, we don’t really have names for them. We just call him number 6.” She replied.

“Wait, really?” I asked. For some reason, that made me feel sorry him.

The longer I stood in that pet store, the more appealing this little guy looked to me. Before I knew what was happening, I was filling out the required paperwork to take him home. I felt as if I was standing outside of my body watching someone else.

I started to look around for the necessary items- food bowls, treats and the like when the salesgirl said to me, “If he doesn’t fit in with your life, you can always bring him back, no questions asked. Please do not abandon the animal.”

“People actually do that?” I asked. Even though I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into, I couldn’t imagine just leaving a poor, defenseless kitten out in the cold for no reason.

“Oh, absolutely they do!” she said. “You’d be surprised at how many people think nothing of just abandoning an animal to fend for itself.”

Before I could change my mind or talk myself out of it, I paid for a carrier, food, a litter box and other assorted items.

“Good luck!” the salesgirl said to me as I scooped “Number 6” into his carrier and headed out of the store. “And remember- if after a week or two he isn’t the right fit for you, please bring him back, we’ll be happy to keep him here.”

“Okay.” I said tentatively. I gathered my things and headed out the door.

The entire walk home, I was second guessing myself with every step. What did I think I was doing? Was I actually going to keep this thing?

Seems like the cat was just as leery of me as I was of it, because he growled, hissed and loudly meowed his obvious displeasure of the situation the entire way home.

I got us home, and as soon as I opened the carrier, a little black and white blob of fur ran scared under the couch. I tried to coax him out with some food and treats, but it was to no avail.

I paced around restlessly for about 45 minutes, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake when all of a sudden, I saw the familiar dart of a disgusting, creepy mouse strut right across my hardwood floors like he owned the place. I screamed, and then a fierce little black and white furball raced out from under the couch and chased it away, hissing the entire time, then promptly returned to hiding from me.

I was overjoyed! “Good boy!” I exclaimed, throwing several treats under the couch. I grinned when I heard him crunching, feeling good about my decision.

Over the next few days, we became fast friends. I’m happy to announce that he’s no longer named “Number 6.” His name is Sammy, however, he’s also known as “Samma-Lamma-King-Kong”, “Samuel L Catson”, “Stinky Boi”, “Sir Samuel the Furryoceous Beast,” “Sammycat”, and a litany of other nicknames that I’ve bestowed on him during our almost 12 years together.

I can honestly say- I love this cat so much it’s absolutely ridiculous! He comforts me when I’m sad, he lays on me when I’m sick and sometimes he’ll just come up to me when I’m reading or watching TV, attack me with headbutts, or crawl into my lap and start demanding scritches, all while purring so loudly you’d think he was a mini diesel engine instead of a 10 pound tuxedo cat.

It’s weird how things work out sometimes. Never in my life did I think I’d ever even like cats, lets alone allow them into my home and heart with open arms.

I’ve been converted.