Samson

I found Samson when I came home from clubbing early one morning in 2005. As we stumbled into the building, I saw his dignified little black body boldly sitting on the stairs leading up to the elevator, and he had me. I was on my knees, petting and cooing and asking my husband, then boyfriend, to take him in.

This was a couple of months into us contemplating a cat, me getting excited by every stray we saw, wondering if it was the one. None of them were quite right. There was no ding feeling, that Cupid arrow hitting you in the moment. The husband and I made a deal to go to work that day, and if the kitten was still there when we returned, we would keep him.

I languished at work, then practically ran home from the subway station. Finally, I scanned the key, the heavy metal door gave way, and I lurched inside.

He was there, two yellow eyes staring out from a black furry hole of a body.

I picked up the fated kitten, called a friend to ask for a good vet’s address, and off I went. As we sat in the vet’s waiting room, the kitten stretched out his scrawny body in my lap, fanning out his paw toes like an expert yogi. People in line asked if he was a polecat-mink hybrid, popular in Moscow at the time.

The polecat-mink hybrid, like an improved ferret.

The vet went over him with his impressive array of UV lights, looking for infections, but found only very dirty ears. I left the clinic with instructions for regular ear cleanings and a very mellow, mink-shaped creature.

We hadn’t yet bought a litter box, so we decided to keep him in the bathroom overnight, with blankets and all. The next morning, when I released him, he still hadn’t peed anywhere. When I opened the balcony door to get something, he darted out wildly and scrambled into a tall pot of earth - left over from a dead plant - to relieve himself. This was illustrative of his overall manners, cleanliness and the highest standard he held himself to. The cat was a saint.

I named him Samson, after a shaggy dog that used to host a Belgian kids’ show, but mostly because of how the name felt in my mouth - Sam-son. I loved the hissy softness of the s’s and the supple plumpness of the o’s. The diminutives were even better – the swooshy softness of Samsosha, the sly quickness of Samsik, the purr of Sams.

Samson en Gert raised at least one generation of Belgian children.

There’s a whole montage of a life with him in my head - his tiny kitten body nestled in the cave of a house slipper, cut to him sitting in every suitcase when I’m packing for vacation, to him proudly minding our newly born child. A long shot of him sprawled on my pregnant belly like a delicate black octopus, affectionately kneading his claws into me as the baby moved inside.

I remember the dusty smell of his soft black fur like a distinct perfume. When we decided to move to the US, he was twelve and his kidneys were shot to pieces. Our vet told us a cat in such condition might not survive a transatlantic move. We left him with my mother, where he could get every conceivable hydrating shot, home vet visit, and medical whim at the snap of our fingers. I wasn’t even sure what medical care to expect for ourselves in the US, but I knew I couldn’t give Samson the level of treatment he had in Moscow.

There were many painful things about leaving – packing up my life, the sweet street sweeper - who’d witnessed my child grow over the years - helping me load boxes into the car, the send-offs from my friends, my dad driving me to the airport. Maybe the most painful was leaving Samson at my mother’s and the quiet drive home. That guilt never faded.

In New York, I did a second take at every black cardigan that caught my eye, lying surreptitiously on the edge the bed. Is that Samson? When I went back for the first summer, I took him home to live with us. When I could miraculously get away at the beginning of 2019, I was a week too late.

He was gone, without me, in my mother’s arms.

Samson’s favorite thing in the world was the water in canned peas. He acted like a drug addict when he heard the can opener go in. We used to anticipate the comedy – a faint click – and here he comes, galloping into the kitchen. He would go for canned corn water too, but it was a weak second.

Samson had many cat sitters as we travelled over the years, but his favorite was my hot friend Yulia, whose lace bras he would steal and chase around the entire apartment.

Samson would fret, eyes huge with worry, when our newborn son cried. He’d get in the crib to try and defuse the situation. As the months went on, he’d babysit the new addition, positioned like a wise protective totem next to the baby chair.

Many years have passed, but the husband and I still share a discreet moist-eyed look when we remember him. Calling our American dog “a clumsy cat” is the highest compliment. My son used to ask if Samson would’ve liked her.

Somewhere inside is a Samson-shaped hole. Every black cat, every black cardigan on the sofa, every can of peas is still him.