When I met Don Shepherd in a music chat room on AOL back in 1998, he was a single man living in a tiny apartment in Largo, Florida, with his cat Isabelle. Its safe to say he loved that cat more than he loved most things, and me being a part of his life was officially “approved” by her the first time I visited him at his apartment, sat in his recliner chair, and she jumped right into my lap. I swear I saw tears in Don’s eyes that day. His family life was very dysfunctional. He had a very controlling mother, a father who didnt give him the time of day (he was the product of an affair and his father had his own family – so Don was his dirty little secret, even when he was an adult), and sisters who didnt speak to each other, or speak to their controlling mother. In many ways, he felt abandoned by his family, and he always said that animals/pets were such incredible creatures, because they dont judge you or ask for much other than food and water and love. And, in return, they love you – unconditlonally – something that is often so very hard for humans to do with each other. All of this is to say that Don Shepherd had a big love for animals, especially dogs and cats, and he had a very special connection with them.
When he moved his life from Florida to New Jersey in 2005 to start a life with me, his cat Isabelle came with him. She was about 11 years old at the time. She sat in his lap during the entire 24 hour drive to my apartment, which then became our apartment. Isabelle was the queen of our Jersey castle. She would live until age 15, and then her health declined rapidly, until we had to make that awful decision that all pet owners loathe and dread. As we sat petting her in that vets office as they gave her the medicine that would help her sleep, my almost 6 ft 4 husband collapsed into my arms, sobbing and saying: “My Isabelle. My poor Izzy.” He took the next 2 days off from work to grieve her, and really, it was the only time during our marriage or life together that I had the honor of “taking care of” Don. He was never sick, never had a cold, never a headache, never the flu, nothing. The only time he needed time off from work in the entire time I knew him was so he could emotionally collapse in private for a couple days after his precious kitty’s death.
After those first few days, Don couldnt stand the idea of not having a kitty in the house. He just kept saying how there were so many that needed homes and needed love, and what the vet told us stuck with him: “Youre not replacing your pet. You are replacing the joy and bringing back the joy that having a pet brings.” Days later, off we went to the nearby rescue shelter in Jersey, to fall in love with another kitty. There, we met Autumn and Ginger (we named them.) They were sisters, and they were 7 weeks old. Ginger climbed on top of Don like he was a playground, and wagged her tail at him and purred like crazy. Autumn immediately came to me and wanted to play. She liked to rough-house and jump all over the place. They were adorable and so much fun. We took them home and they became our new joy in the form of pets. At age 3, on some ordinary evening, Autumn and Ginger were playing with each other like normal, chasing each other around the apartment and wrestling, which they did often. It was the middle of the night, so we were in bed laughing at their antics. Then we heard Ginger whimpering. She didnt sound good. It was a painful sound. Don got up and found her under the bed, hiding. He coaxed her out slowly and we got her into the kitty transport and drove her to the nearest pet ER, which was about 45 minutes away. Don was again tearing up and talking to Ginger the whole drive: “its okay sweetie. Youre gonna be okay. We are gonna take good care of you.” The news was not good. She was born with an enlarged heart. She threw a blood clot while they were wrestling, and she couldnt move her back leg. When they showed us the x-ray of her lungs and heart, Don, a paramedic who knew exactly what he was looking at, broke down in tears and put his arm around me as he gently explained: “You see right there, Boo? Her heart is too big for her little body, and its crushing her lungs and shes having trouble breathing.” “What can we do?”, I asked him and the vet. The vets response was professional but clear: “Unfortunately, this cat was not meant to live a long life. These issues will keep getting worse and her breathing will become more labored soon. You need to make a decision about end of life. Ill give you a few minutes.” Don’s answer was more to the point: “We cant do anything, Boo. She’s fucked.” We came back home to Autumn that night without her sister. Once again, my husband collapsed into a pile of emotional goo, and I held him i my arms until he could cry no more.
Losing Isabelle was heart-wrenching. Losing Ginger was almost worse because it was SO unexpected, and because Ginger became Don’s best buddy. She would climb him daily, and sit on top of his shoulder or his back like a parrot. She would lick his elbow or his face while he played on the computer or watched a Yankees game. She would sit right next to him or in his lap as he strummed his guitar in the apartment. At night, Autumn would lie down right behind my head on my pillow and purr like crazy, and Ginger would wrap herself into Don’s arms or lay in the same direction as him, almost “spooning” him. It was hte craziest thing, and he was in heaven. Finding another kitty who had that kind of connection to Don would be next to impossible.
And then we did. Once again, in the days following Gingers death, Don was a mess. We tried focusing on comforting Autumn, but it was just so heartbreaking, and the apartment was so quiet without them wrestling and playing together anymore. We drove back to the rescue shelter, not with the intention of getting another pet, but to let Gingers foster mom know that she had died, and give her some pictures of Ginger to keep. (she worked at the shelter and had fostered the kittens before we took them home.) As we were standing at the counter talking with Gingers foster mom and sharing memories of her climbing Don’s back and shoulder, a beautiful orange and white cat was being fed by a staff member. SHe opened his cage area, and he snuck out of his cage, walked right over to Don, and literally climbed him like a tree, landing on his left shoulder. Everyone stood there stunned for a minute, then Don turned to me and said: “You realize we are taking him home, right?”
His name was Shawn, and he was approximately 10 years old. His owner had him for ten years, then had dropped him off that morning, saying she was allergic to him or something. The staff at the shelter all told us: “He has only been here about 5 hours, and he is literally the sweetest cat we have ever met. His owner said he loves to cuddle and sleep with owner, and he is extremely loving. If you want him, you need to take him home today, now. He will not be here long because everybody is in love with him.” We went home with him that day.
Sammy, which is what we re-named him because Don said: “Who names a cat Shawn? That ‘s the name of some Irish guy you have a beer with in a Boston pub, not a cat!”, became Don’s very best friend. He followed Son everywhere. If Don went to the bathroom, Sammy followed. If Don went into the kitchen, Sammy followed. Everywhere Don went, Sammy followed. At night, Sammy would dig himself a place in the crook of Don’s arm, or, even more astounding, he would wrap himself up like a wreath and sleep ON DON’S HEAD. Most people would not be able to sleep with a cat on their head, but Don not only slept, he also smiled in his sleep. Sammy and Don were meant to be together, no question.
They only got a year together, because in July of 2011, Don left on an ordinary Wednesday morning for his volunteer job at Petsmart, helping with kitty and dog adoptions. An hour later, they found him collapsed on the floor. Massive heart attack, age 46, no symptoms. If youve been following my story here, you know the rest. Enter widowhood for me, and even better, a widow with 2 cats. Awesome. Just hand me the black veil and Ill start knitting my afghans today.
Watching and witnessing Sammy grieve Don’s absence was heart-wrenching. It lasted months and months, and sometimes, I think he still grieves him somehow. Their connection was beyond anything I could explain in words, and clearly it went beyond death. Sammy sat by the door to our apartment for weeks, everyday, waiting for Don to come home. Every few minutes, he would let out a whisper of a meow, almost like it was a question. “Where are you?” Don would come home each day from his shift, and Sammy would be there to greet him at the door. Don would walk in, and Sammy would either climb him immediately, or walk circles around his feet until Don picked him up for cuddle time. Later, they would sit in his recliner chair, and Sammy would climb Don’s chest and stare into his eyes while Don would pet him. After Don’s death, I would open the closet door one day to find Sammy sitting inside a bag that contained one of Don’s EMS uniforms in it. Sammy was sitting on the uniform, smelling it, and whimpering. When I tried to pick him up to come out of the closet, he refused, clinging with his claws to the bag. He would stay there for hours longer, crying.
Eventually, Sammy began to shift his love for Don to me. He began to comfort me through the loss. We began to comfort each other. He started lying on my chest, and he started sleeping with me and purring and looking at me as if to say: “I know. I miss him so much too. Lets miss him together.” Yes, I sound crazy, but Sammy has these gorgeous big eyes and he will sit there looking right into yours, and you swear he is trying to say something. Sammy and me and Autumn have made it all these years, together. It was not easy, and it continues to be a challenge, but we are here.
Today, Autumn is 12 years old, and Sammy is about 22 years old. Amazing. They have moved with me 3 times over the past ten years. With each move, we have held onto and kept Don’s recliner chair, and a few of his other things, because I believe they still feel close to him when they are around those items. Sammy and Autumn lived in my parents basement for awhile, while we werent allowed pets in our apartment. My dad took great care of them, and misses them now that we have them in our home. These days, the kitties have not only me, but Nick to love them, too. Don always referred to himself as the kitties Papa, so Nick is their daddy. They are very well loved. Sammy is not doing well, because he is very old and fragile and his fur is matted and he smells of old-man cat, and he has digestive and tummy issues, and more. But, he is still loveable, he still jumps in my lap or on my chest, he still wants to love and be loved, and he is happy. The vet who saw him last said the best thing I can do is just love him like crazy, and hopefully , when his time is near, he will let us know. When that time comes, I am pretty sure that I will be a similar pile of goo that Don was when we lost Isabelle, and then Ginger.
Two things about Sammy’s death comfort me in an odd and sad way:
The first thing is knowing that Don doesn’t have to go through the process of losing Sammy, grieving Sammy, missing Sammy. I think it might have broken him somehow.
The second is the slight / maybe / hope that when Sammy dies, he will somehow be reunited with Don. I have no clue if I actually believe this or not, and I probably lean more toward not believing it, but one time long ago Don made a comment to me about “if there is a Heaven, I think its filled with all the pets we lost and we hopefully get to see them again.” He also said something one time about how if there is a God, he would like to think that pets and kids have the closest access. For him, this thought was comforting, so Im trying to comfort myself by thinking that just maybe, when Sammy takes his last breathe, his soul and his being will transport itself , like a wreath, and wrap right around Don’s head.
I am dreading that day for myself, and hoping it is a day of magic for Don and Sammy.
