Sammy the Guru Cat

From Menletter December 2009

By Tim Baehr

Sammy was a scaredy cat. Crumple a newspaper and he was on full alert, or dashing into the next room. The fact that he was, for most of his life, terrorized by two much larger cats may have been a contributing factor.

He was my cat; he selected me, of all the humans in the family, as his special pal. Within minutes of my getting home from work or an errand, he'd be on his hind legs, front paws on my thigh, looking up into my face. If he wanted a treat while we were eating, he'd paw at my backside through the chair. And he'd often settle down on my chest in bed. Maybe he recognized a special kinship: we both have never met a carbohydrate that we didn't like. He'd eat crackers, pretzels, popcorn - you name it.

Sammy was also a fur factory. Year-round, copious shedder. And if another cat chased him, he'd add big orange tufts hanging in the air like chaff, as if they might distract his pursuers (they didn't). He was one of the reasons we finally bought a decent vacuum cleaner.

Like most cats, Sammy divided his time among sleeping or resting, eating, and mindless playing. Most of the time he was sacked out on a chair or on a sunny spot on the floor, asleep or half-asleep.

Get him to the vet, however, and this mild-mannered, lazy scaredy cat turned into an eight-pound tiger. It would be hard to believe if I hadn't seen it myself: a vet and two technicians struggling to hold him down just to get a blood sample. This show of strength continued into his geriatric years, even with advanced kidney failure.

I was very fond of this cat. Pets do become like members of the family, even quirky or dysfunctional pets. But I'm remembering Sammy today, toward the end of the year, because he was never anything but true to his nature. Like all pets, he never tried to pretend he was other than who he was - not better, not worse, just himself. He didn't spend any time thinking about this. He didn't have to sit and meditate for hours to eliminate his selfish ego. He didn't make promises he could or couldn't keep. He never made plans. He never had regrets. He never lied or boasted; he spoke a tone language of all vowels, and the major meaning of almost all his utterances was "Feed me."

In a time when many of our gurus are telling us to "just be," Sammy just was.

We humans are trapped by minds that can think using language, that can make promises and plans, that lead us to be kind or cruel, truthful or lying. To achieve Sammy's level of just-being, we can spend lifetimes in meditation and never quite make it.

Being ourselves is a constant challenge. We really can't afford to go all-natural and instinctive all the time. That won't get the rent paid or put food on the table. But our animal companions can serve as models for what we might aspire to at least part of the time.

So here's my resolution for the new year: be just a little more like Sammy, at least part of the time. Appreciate repose and rest, be truer to who I am, be a loyal friend, occasionally let people take care of me. I'll skip the startle reflex, the shedding part, and trying to shred the vet.