My grandfather was a very dignified man. Born at the end of the 19th century, he fought in both World Wars, was a local community leader, and, most vividly to my recollection, took me to Senators baseball games when they were still based in DC. He lived a long life, but towards the end had to have one leg amputated as the result of a blood clot. In his final days, he could not bathe himself, but he never lost his dignity, and wore a coat and tie at home, like many men of the old school.

There is something to be said for appearances, and I think this applies even to animals like Samantha. In fact, a vet will look at a cat’s coat to get a general idea of its health; a vibrant, shiny coat is the sign of a healthy animal. As any cat owner who has watched their pet spend countless hours grooming knows, having a well manicured coat is very important. Among other things, it prevents hair from clumping together, which, when finally removed, will cause bald spots.

Despite the mechanical problems of the tumor in her mouth, Sammy still makes great efforts to groom herself. Just as you would help your aging mother or father brush their hair when they can no longer do it themselves, I spend a lot of time now brushing Sammy’s hair, especially the spots she can no longer reach herself. Good hygiene for her; good therapy for me.

Should a man love a cat this much? Such love is a form of defiance; I don’t really care about the things that impress most people; the trophy wife; the art that you don’t really understand; the statusmobile. But I do care about this living thing that I can touch, and smell, and hold in my lap. And, most importantly, it cares about me. It jumps in my lap; it kneads my stomach with its little legs, it finds the warm seat I left behind. So everyone else can have the money, and the big house, and the accolades. I’ll take Sammy.

My cat smells great. To you, she might stink. But to me she smells great. Sure, she needs a bath, and she gets dirty because she has to dip her head into the water fountain to drink, and into the food dish to eat. But she’s alive, and that pungent odor, which would probably elicit a “Ewwe” from most people, is like perfume to me. It’s the perfume of life, not the stink of death.

She used to be such a pretty cat. No more. Her fur is very spotty now; she is skinny, and not in a healthy way, and she’s generally dirty. But her eyes are still bright. She used to have the perfect little rosebud mouth; now it is distorted by the tumor. So her mouth is kind of slanted. Sometimes I can’t bear to look, even though I don’t think she is in pain.

My father’s wife lost her dog about 10 weeks ago, and she still can’t get over it. She is reminded of the dog every time she walks though her house, and sees the places where the dog used to lie. I understand, although my father thinks it’s time to move on. When we really care, nothing can help but time.

When we don’t really care, we don’t even need the time. I have an uncle who is dying. Frankly, the sooner he dies the better. He is in pain, uncomfortable, and unable to do anything, except further bankrupt Medicare. And cause a huge around-the-clock burden to my aunt. This may seem cold; he is not a bad man, but also not a man whose company I ever enjoyed, or who has contributed much to the happiness of others. Should I feel bad that I care far more about my cat than my uncle? I don’t think so.

My uncle died yesterday morning; I doubt whether anyone has any real sadness, probably just relief. I’m sure his wife; my aunt, a good woman, was sad, as it ends decades of marriage.

Sammy is still hanging on. Where does life end and death begin? She still comes out in the morning and jumps in my lap, but she’s getting very thin. We’re going to buy a memorial to put on her grave; it’s a statue of a cat; it looks more like Sammy when she was fat and healthy. I hope I can remember her from those times; it seems like so long ago. She’s been sick for about 6 months now, but it seems so long ago that she was healthy.

I’ve switched the drug treatments again. The steroids didn’t seem to do much good; her mouth is looking more swollen, she doesn’t seem to be able to close it. I have to wipe her mouth a number of times every day, after she eats and drinks. It may sound gross; and it does look gross, but it doesn’t bother me at all; you know you’re in love when you’re more concerned about a person or an animal’s pain than your own inconvenience.

The really hot babe? Don’t marry her unless you’re willing to clean up after her when she’s sick. If the idea of that makes you sick, you’re just in lust; not in love. Your sensual attraction will fade with time and familiarity- probably much sooner than you think. But she will be throwing up one day, curled up in stained sweatpants on your connubial bed. Will you want to run your hands through her hair and comfort her then? Or will you be dying to get in your car and just drive away, to, well, anywhere?