The Story of Siddy McPhee

Seeing as it's Halloween, it seems an appropriate time to share the story of my cat Sid... though he and I were introduced to one another around New Year's rather than Halloween. I had just begun working as a veterinary technician. (I like to say "working as a veterinary technician" because I was never actually certified as a veterinary technician; I know there's quite a bit of training that goes into earning the title and I don't want folks to presume that I know everything there is to know about being a technician.)

Back to the story.

It was my first day on the job and I was in the cat kennel. There was a domestic shorthair, all black, in one of the bottom cages. Stuck to the cage was a note that read in all capital letters: CAUTION! NO RABIES VACCINE! This, not surprisingly, made me nervous. "Should I be worried about this cat?" I asked Andy, the technician who was training me that day.

"No, that's Sid. He's a sweetheart. We just don't know his vaccine history."

As it turns out, Sid had been brought in right around Christmas. His "owners" (I use that term very loosely) had found him lying beside the road and monitored his behavior for a couple days. When he still hadn't moved after twenty-four hours or so, they called the vet hospital and wondered if they should bring him in for a visit. The answer was, "Yes! Bring him in immediately."

Fortunately, Sid's injuries were not terrible-horrible and Doc was able to fix him up. He stayed at the hospital for quite a while, mending very well, and then his "owners" decided they didn't want to pay the bill and therefore abandoned him. So... I tried to persuade my parents that we needed him.

My dad was an easy sell. He has some good traits, but his best two traits are his ability to fix ANYTHING and his willingness to welcome ANY animal into our home. (His worst two traits are probably smoking and the frozen-sloth speed he employs to read the novels I write. To this day, he's read all of Just Whistle and only six chapters of The Way Back.)

Convincing my mom that we needed Sid was a bit trickier. In her defense, we did have six cats and two dogs (Airedales, so the dogs were on the bigger side) at the time. And if you've ever met my mom, you know that she's essentially Martha Stewart without the prison sentence: she's insanely tidy, can prepare absolutely anything and make it taste delicious, and knows how to throw a phenomenal party.

Fortunately, I am very persuasive.

While I was wielding my magic and slowly talking my mom into adopting another cat, Sid was told that he could no longer reside at the hospital. Doc allowed me to transport him to the SPCA, which I did with tears in my eyes. I cried the whole way there and Sid sat in his carrier on the front seat, paws crossed and chin resting upon them, watching me with soulful eyes.

He was at the SPCA for a few weeks. While there, he developed a terrible ear infection and was therefore not put up for adoption. I went to visit him weekly. The staff at the shelter is so kind and they allowed me to see him in one of the back rooms. While I was there one afternoon, a volunteer said to me, "You know, there's a really good chance he won't be adopted. Black cats often aren't. You could foster him..."

I asked my mom.

She said no.

I asked again.

She said no.

I asked again and again and again.

She finally said yes.

Sid came home that day and took up residency in the upstairs guest room. Within fifteen minutes of being there, he'd befriended Franny, one of the six cats already living with us, and met several of the others. Though some of the boys hissed when they first interacted with him, Sid never did anything more than purr. He's a very polite fellow.

He also never went back to the SPCA.

In time, Sid relocated to the basement where there was more space. He technically had the run of the house, but he preferred to seclude himself and steer clear of the dogs. (To this day, dogs are still among his least favorite things.) In the evenings, he'd utilize the cat door and visit the kitchen while my dad, arriving home late from work, ate dinner at the counter. Sid liked to untie his shoes, chase the laces for long stretches of time, and then hop onto the counter to tip my dad's glass of iced tea. Sid used to love to tip over glasses! It was pretty much his favorite pastime.

Today, Sid is nearly nineteen (most likely; I can't be one hundred percent sure of his age when I adopted him) and was recently diagnosed as being in kidney failure. I'm not sure how much more time I have with him, but I'm savoring every minute. He sleeps on my pillow each night and breathes on me with his swampy breath, licking my face and giving my neck love bites, and even though these displays of affection are always stinky and often painful, I never ask him to stop.