Sea World Right At Home

I'm a cat lover now, have been since I last married in 1982. It wasn't so much a conscious choice as just going along with the program. It has turned out to be such a wonderful program.

Have you ever heard of a cat named Shamu? Well, we had her for 14 years until the day she died with her head in my hand on December 14, 2004. It was as bad for my wife, Jane, and me as either of us could have expected. I howled in grief as Jane's tears fell somewhat quieter.

Shamu had been named by her original human, Dotsie, a nurse with whom Jane worked at a clinic which specialized in H. I. V. and A. I. D. S. patients. That two years for my wife is another story to be told at another time. Our Shamu was born about the time that a real baby Orca was born in San Diego. Dotsie said that the kitten looked like a tiny gray and white Orca that could be held in your hand. When Shamu was about a year old, she was given to us, as her first human decided that she could no longer take care of an animal.

We had one cat at the time, Flower, who was rescued off Ventura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks, CA. Flower was content enough to be in a home, but she was never the holding kind of cat. In fact, she'd howl if you picked her up, so we just let her go her own way, as if we had a choice.

But Shamu was the most loving cat I'd ever seen before or since. She loved any kind of contact: laptime; being slung over my shoulder and worn like a folded coat; being rubbed behind her ears; being scratched on top of her head, all while I listened to the steady rhythm of her deep, contented purr. And both of us gave her all the attention that she seemed to want. Flower desired little contact, so she missed out on a whole lotta love.

One of Shamu's delights was shrimp. As if I were talking to a baby, I'd raise my voice and say, "Does the baby want some shrimpies?" Almost immediately she reacted to the first few words of my baby tone. Her response was loud and clear, and very excited. We bought those tiny shrimp just for her, but we'd cut up larger ones if she needed a treat. And she ate her shrimp as if she'd just come off a long diet.

Her eyes were so special. She looked at both of us as if she knew us well, which she obviously did, but she looked at us with genuine affection. She was as much a member of our little family as anyone could have been. And for over 14 years it was Jane and I, Flower and Shamu. We lost Flower first, almost two years before Shamu died, and so for a time there were just the three of us.

As we all do, Shamu finally began to go downhill. Our wonderful vet in Beverly Hills told us it was normal for a cat's kidneys to finally just wear out, and that's one of the ailments Shamu had to fight. She lost weight, had a difficult time eating, and often simply missed the cat box. On the final afternoon of Shamu's life, Jane wrapped her as gently as possible in a thick towel, held her close and I drove us to the vet's office. There was no postponing, no miracle cure, just that last, awful act that would relieve her suffering. But of course we asked if anything else might make her better.

It was very quiet as the vet filled the syringe. Shamu put her paw over onto my hand as she waited, and she looked me right in the eyes. I could see her pain, her fear, and her desire for relief. Then it was all over.

We had her cremated and her remains will stay with us until the end of our time. I miss her still. In fact, last night the picture of her last look came into my consciousness, and I wept once again. Was it all worth it? Absolutely.