Letters to Sammy: 60+

Dear Sammy,

It’s been two months now. Two months since we lost you. I can talk about you and not start crying, which is progress. Your dad has gotten better, but he still misses you. I think he’d like nothing more than another chance to split his sardines with you, while scritching you behind the ears. Me, I just wish we could have split that Culver’s cheeseburger. Or at the very least, I could have cooked you some swordfish. Too bad it will never happen.

I got rid of the food. You know what kind. I had to, as we aren’t using it and we couldn’t donate it. I kept the plastic lids, though. I might be able to use them sometime in the future.

It’s still hot. The humidity hasn’t gotten any better. I know that it’s August, but I wish it would cool down a little. But that may not happen until fall.

I got my review at work. I’m doing well. Since I’m now three years in, I’m set; I pretty much have a job for life. It would take the vice president of the company signing off on the pink slip to get me out of there. I have no intention of letting that happen. I’m with a decent company now and I intend to stay there.

There’s been some changes at work. Now, we have to be walked to the door by a supervisor after store close and Lot Security has to escort us to our cars. I’m not sure if this was supposed to be our original protocol or not, but it’s a bit weird. It doesn’t bother me much, but it’s just weird. We also have to lock the padlocks after we’ve rolled the doors open in the morning. So basically, we need a manager to unlock them before we can shut them down at closing time. I’m not sure why we have to do this now; I’ve been with Member Service for about two years now and this is all recent. Yeah, I’m confused, too.

I went to Lucy’s Closet yesterday. It’s supposed to be a pet boutique, but this place is straight up for dogs only. Nothing at all for cats. No treats, no food, nothing. Disappointed doesn’t begin to describe how I felt.

Your dad made salsa. You’d probably turn your nose up at it–not that I’d let you have any because onions and garlic are bad for cats–but I have all ideas you’d eat one of the corn chips. I know you; you would have snatched one out of my hand and started crunching. Because when it came to food, you were never picky. If I had it in my hands or it was in a bowl in front of me, you’d take a sample. You didn’t hesitate. At least you waited until I was done. You were polite about it, I’ll definitely give you that. I always said you were the smartest cat I’d ever known.

I miss you, fuzz bucket. I miss you tripping me up, knocking my cell phone over, jumping on the bed, meowing to wake me up, all of it. Your dad does, too. We’d love nothing more than to snuggle with you on the bed while feeding you treats. Lots and lots of treats.

Yours,

Silverwynde

P.S. I wish you were still here, so you could steal a bite of my dinner again.

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About Silverwynde

I'm a Transformers fan, Pokémon player, Brewers fan and all-out general nerd. I rescue abandoned Golett, collect as many Bumblebee decoys and figures as I can find and I've attended every BotCon since 1999. I'm also happily married to a fellow Transfan named Prime and we were both owned by a very intelligent half-Siamese cat, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge on June 16, 2018. We still miss him. But we're now the acting staff of a Maine Coon kitty named Lulu, who pretty much rules the house. Not that we're complaining about that.
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