Scratcher of heads, rubber of bellies
When he was younger, sometimes you’d look up and see Boo staring straight into your soul. From the get-go he has been part mystic and part goofball, effortlessly transitioning between the two. The staring stopped as he grew older but the rest holds true even today. This is from 2013, a few months after we adopted him.
The disembodied head of Boo sees all, knows all.
Sam on New Year’s Eve in 2007, a week and a half after we adopted him. He was on the brink of being given freedom to roam the house at large and thus meet Scout, who he adored all her life.
As 2018 rings in, a picture from New Year’s Day a decade ago, about a week after we adopted Sam and Emma. Sam was allowed limited exposure to the house at large, which meant he also got to meet our oldest Scout face-to-face instead of under the door. She quickly became his hero. Today the roles have changed, he is our oldest and it is little Trixie who worships him. They are both curled up on my lap, but with fireworks in the distance he is too restless to sleep.
Sam in early 2008 enjoying his freedom in the house at large after we adopted him and kept him in isolation with Emma for a couple of weeks. He’s had diarrhea the past month and we got the first clue as to why from a fecal sample, he doesn’t have nearly as much healthy bacteria as he should despite taking probiotics the past month. He’s going to start some antibiotics soon if he doesn’t improve, as he may have some bad bacteria that’s keeping the good bacteria from thriving. If there’s a silver lining to getting laid off a month ago, in addition to being able to take Ellie on long walks each morning, it’s that I’ve been here to take Sam to the vet and get his medicines and give him second chances at eating when he’s not feeling well. He actually put on a little weight this month, not what you’d expect from someone with his condition, so the good news is he’s getting the nutrients from his food. After what we went through with Emma, that’s a big relief.
But I’ll be a lot happier when we know what is going on.
A camouflage evolved for thousands of years allows the orange tabby to blend into his environment, the hardwood floors of the Pacific Northwest. Sam as a kitten in 2007, a few days after we adopted him.
Sam atop the scratching post a few days after we adopted him in 2007, probably watching Emma play with her mice (we adopted them on the same day).
One of my favorite pictures of young Sam when he came to live with us in 2007. My lasting impression of him from that time is of a kitten who purred easily and loudly. This impression was formed right from the start, he purred the moment they brought him in to see us in the meeting room at the Humane Society when we were deciding if we should adopt him. Once we gave him free reign of the house, I loved to climb into bed at night as Scout jumped up to join me, and I could listen to a purring sound grow louder and louder as it moved from my office, as it climbed the stairs, as it jumped into bed with Scout and I. Sometimes he and Scout would start rubbing faces and then they’d both be purring at full bore, the sweetest music to fall asleep to.
I switched to a digital camera at the end of 2000 and I’m very glad I did, I enjoyed photography in the film days but with digital my love grew by leaps and bounds. However the primitive autofocus of that camera had no hope of keeping up with the two month old kitten we adopted in May of 2001, so I put Scout’s beaver toy on top of the scratching post and ran back and turned around and focused on it instead, hoping to get set up before she jumped onto the post. Part of me would love to go back in time with my current camera and experience to photograph my beloved Scout again, or even leave the camera behind and just spend a few minutes with her, but part of me is afraid she wouldn’t recognize me at 50 instead of 35 and I don’t think my heart could stand it.
Boolie 