Seamus, the stray cat who changed our lies

It's taken something drastic for me to revisit my abandoned blog; in this case, the death of one of my closest friends who shared our lives for the past 14 years. Seamus wasn't a human. He was a cat. He came to live with us on Young Street in Kitchener only 10 days after the sudden death of my beloved Guinness, a strikingly handsome short-haired grey tabby with eyes the color of the Mediterranean (seriously). Guinness had developed a tumour that killed him in two days. I was still in shock-and observing the kitten we'd got as company for Guinness, Flannery, wander from room to room in a futile search for his buddy-when I received a call from my friend Janet. Another mutual friend of ours had taken in a stray that they needed to place before winter, as they already had two cats. "I know you just lost Guinness," she said, "but they really need to find a home for him." "Okay," I said, having sworn the previous week that it was too difficult to lose pets and that I'd just about had it.

My parents were visiting, and that very morning, my dad had said "I hope you're not thinking about getting another cat."

I drove to Cambridge to Donna's place, and was greeted outside by a rather unusual-looking but friendly little number. She followed me to the door of Donna's in-home hair studio, where I was told that this was not, in fact, the cat that needed a home....he was already looking at me, perched on a counter. He was long-haired, orange, with green eyes. I was immediately in love.

I took him home, where he and Flan became fast pals. He slept a lot, and seemed docile and pleasant. We took him to the vet's where he was proclaimed to be 6 or 7 years old, maybe more, and he had the biggest parasite the vet had ever seen in a cat. He returned to us, neutered and parasite-free, and--without the energy drain that hosting can be--he started tearing around the house, chasing and being chased by an ecstatic Flan, and purring on our bed every chance he got. He was seldom allowed to go outside, due to the manic drivers that frequently roared down on our street, but his quest for the freedom of the outdoors never ended. He loved water, and would often jump into the shower. We would place him on the edge of the tub, where he would wait patiently for us to draw back the curtain so he could drink the water trickling from our fingers. He liked this best when the shower was on full blast.

Seamus had the distinction of being the only cat to appear onstage in our theatre's production of "Lettice & Lovage." He played opposite the director's wife, a resident actor who was very adept at expressing her needs. Seamus had his own dressing room and his own driver (we weren't involved in the play, so those were our conditions; we didn't want to be ferrying him to the theatre on a daily basis, we didn't want him to have to be there for 6 hours a day, and we didn't want him to bolt and never be seen again). Towards the end of the run, he would hide whenever his driver showed up. The aforementioned actor began to express her opinion that he should be declawed, as he was snagging her clothing. I think that ended any real possibility of friendship between us.

When we moved to Edmonton on September 1, 2006, he occupied a pet carrier with his pal Flan and was very, very still. That night, having safely made it to my parents' farm, we let loose our 3 cats in the fifth wheel we were sleeping in. Seamus was the first one up on the bed the next morning, purring loudly--"the water purr," Mike called it. Seamus loved Edmonton more than we did. Our 1899 house has a balcony off the bedroom, where he spent many hours. As we started to notice him slowing down, we began to let him go outside--he would still bolt out the door when visitors arrived, and he always seemed to know which guests were most likely to leave the door open a bit too long. He began most nights by laying on my pillow, or right between Mike & I, where he would purr incessantly and gently remind us with an extended claw that we needed to put our books down and give me some attention.

Ultimately, our vet believed that Seamus had an over-active thyroid that contributed to his weight loss and caused much stress on his heart, so it's probable that--in spite of our efforts to medicate him and force him to eat, which were short-lived--he died of heart failure around 4am. Yesterday, as I was in the shower, he was laying on his side on the bathmat, purring loudly. He continued to purr for a half hour after the water was turned off.

Everyone who liked cats, and knew Seamus, loved him. When we announced in '06 that we were moving to Edmonton, we would be met with "Oh no!" and then, "Are you taking Seamus?" (No one ever asked if we were taking our other two cats, the somewhat cranky Flan and the somewhat violent Abe, a beautiful Burman stray).

Now, we have to learn to live in this house without him. As difficult as saying goodbye has been, and as much as he will be missed, I wouldn't trade the past 14 years for the absence of this present pain. Seamus gave much more joy, humour and comfort than what should be possible for an animal to provide. We feel lucky--blessed--that someone lost a diamond that landed on our doorstep.