Calling Marquee Home: What My Cat Sam Taught My Family About Love, Death, and Advocacy

A couple of hours ago, my cat Sam died.

He was 19 years old.

And while my heart is absolutely broken, underneath the grief is something else that I wasn’t expecting to feel quite so strongly:

Pride.

I am so incredibly proud of him.

He lived a good life. He loved deeply. He was loved deeply. And when it was finally time, he died peacefully at home, in the place where he had spent approximately 15 years being the magnificent, demanding, affectionate king of our family.

We Were “Just Looking”

In 2012, we went to the Farmington Animal Shelter to just look.

You know how that goes.

As we walked through the shelter, I noticed an absolutely magnificent cat sitting by himself in an isolated cage. He looked like a Norwegian Forest Cat mix, with this incredible mane surrounding his face.

He immediately came to the front of the cage and began rubbing against my fingers.

Obviously, I was done for.

I asked why he was separated from the other cats. They explained that he had just arrived. The shelter was full, and they hadn’t even had time to officially check him in or get him to the veterinarian yet.

His name was Marquee.

His elderly owner had died, and the owner’s children had brought him to the shelter.

I was already in love.

I asked if we could take him home.

Because he hadn’t been processed yet, they allowed us to adopt him for free as long as we agreed to take responsibility for getting him to a veterinarian and providing his care.

Deal.

Looking at that enormous mane, we decided Marquee needed a name befitting his appearance.

We named him Samson.

And, of course, that quickly became Sam.

The King Arrives

Sam immediately fit into our family, although I’m sure from his perspective it was quite the adjustment.

He had gone from living with an elderly person in what I imagine was a relatively peaceful environment to a busy house with two small children.

Addie wasn’t even born yet.

But Sam adapted.

More than that, he became ours.

Sam was regal, dignified, and magnificent.

He was also a gigantic baby.

He loved affection and had absolutely no shame about demanding it.

If one of the kids was hiding away in their bedroom for too long, Sam would scratch at the door until they let him in and provided the attention he believed he was entitled to.

We used to joke that Sam didn’t simply want love.

Sam demanded love.

And he would not give up until someone picked him up and bestowed the appropriate amount of affection upon him.

He slept on my head at night.

His purr was ridiculously loud, and he was almost always purring when someone loved on him.

When my mom or sister came to visit, Sam saw this primarily as the arrival of a new lap.

He loved running water, so over the years we had several fountains around the house for him.

But apparently drinking the water wasn’t enough.

For reasons known only to Sam, he also loved putting his head underneath running water.

Someone would inevitably encounter him afterward and yell:

“WHY IS SAM WET?”

It became a family game.

Why is Sam wet?

Because Sam.

He also loved walking through our fenced backyard, surveying his territory like the king he clearly believed himself to be. Every once in a while, he would remind us that underneath all that luxurious fur was still a predator and show off his skills as a hunter and mouser.

He and our cat Kitty became fast friends and could often be found curled up together.

And then Addie came along.

Sam Becomes a Guardian

Something changed in Sam when I became pregnant with Addie.

He became her guardian.

During my pregnancy, he would curl up and sleep on my belly.

After she was born, there were countless times when I found myself rocking a baby and a giant fluffy cat at the same time.

I would look down and realize I somehow had both of them in my arms.

As Addie grew, Sam remained part of her world.

That is one of the things about losing an animal who has lived this long that is difficult to explain.

Sam wasn’t simply our pet.

He is woven into the architecture of our family’s memories.

My children don’t really remember our family without him.

He was there through childhoods, birthdays, illnesses, ordinary Tuesdays, family changes, visitors, laughter, tears, new animals, growing children and thousands of completely unremarkable days that become precious only when you realize they are over.

For approximately 15 years, Sam was simply there.

Until, gradually, he wasn’t going to be anymore.

When Caring Changes

About six months ago, Sam began to decline.

There wasn’t one dramatic moment. His body simply began showing us that it was getting tired.

So our relationship with him changed again.

We moved into palliative care.

We carried him around the house.

We brought him food.

We fed him tubes and treats.

We made accommodations.

We watched him carefully.

We loved him where he was instead of asking his aging body to be what it had once been.

Eventually, it became clear that Sam’s body was beginning to shut down.

And this is where Sam gave me one final lesson.

Death Deserves Dignity, Too

I spent part of my career around hospice patients.

I have also had the profound privilege of providing end-of-life care for people I loved, including my grandparents.

Those experiences changed my relationship with death.

I don’t believe death is something we always have to fight simply because it is death.

Sometimes there comes a point when our job changes.

We stop trying to prevent death at all costs and begin asking:

How do I help this living being leave with as much comfort, dignity, love and autonomy as possible?

That distinction became incredibly important with Sam.

As his body began shutting down, he remained peaceful. I was watching closely for signs of suffering and was prepared to intervene if that changed.

But I did not believe he was asking me to take him somewhere else to die.

The veterinarian strongly encouraged me to bring him in for euthanasia.

I understand why euthanasia exists. I am grateful that animals have access to it when suffering cannot be adequately controlled. There are circumstances in which euthanasia is an extraordinarily compassionate choice.

But I also don’t believe it is the only compassionate choice.

When an animal is appropriately supported, symptoms and suffering are being monitored, and a natural death can occur peacefully, I believe families deserve support in considering that option as well.

And everything in me knew:

Sam wanted to be home.

I even reached out to my friend Deb, who works intuitively with animals, because I needed reassurance that I was hearing him correctly.

Her message reflected what I already felt.

Sam wanted to die at home with his family.

So I advocated for him.

“Call Marquee Home”

This morning, I found myself on the phone with the veterinarian defending that decision.

I explained that Sam was peaceful.

I explained that I was monitoring him.

I explained that I wanted to allow him to die naturally at home as long as he remained comfortable.

And as strange as this may sound to some people, I think Sam heard me.

I think he knew I was advocating for him.

I think he knew I wasn’t going to make him leave.

After I hung up, I went to him.

I gave him love.

I gave him Reiki.

And then I thought about the elderly person who had loved him before us.

The person who had once known him not as Sam or Samson, but as Marquee.

I asked his former owner to come get him.

I asked them to call Marquee home.

Then, tearful and frustrated from the conversation with the veterinarian, I went downstairs to talk to Joe.

I needed to calm myself down.

Before going back upstairs, I picked some flowers for Sam.

I wanted to bring them to him.

When I came upstairs with the flowers, Sam was gone.

He had died peacefully.

On his own.

At home.

I looked at him and felt grief, of course.

But I also felt this enormous surge of pride.

You did it, Sam.

He was so brave.

He was so strong.

And he did it exactly the way I believed he wanted to.

Maybe Animals Need Hospice Social Workers, Too

This experience has left me thinking deeply about something I hadn’t considered before.

Maybe animals need hospice social workers.

Not necessarily in the literal professional structure we currently associate with human hospice, but in philosophy and function.

Someone who can help families understand what dying looks like.

Someone who can help assess quality of life alongside veterinary professionals.

Someone who can help people distinguish discomfort from suffering, fear from emergency, and dying from something that necessarily needs to be stopped.

Someone who can help families think through their values.

Someone who can sit with grief without immediately trying to fix it.

Someone who can help children understand what is happening.

Someone who can advocate for the animal and for the humans who know that animal best.

Someone who understands that sometimes intervention is compassionate—and sometimes creating a safe space for death is compassionate, too.

Veterinary medicine understandably focuses heavily on preventing suffering. That matters enormously. But I think there is room for more conversation about dying well.

Because death is not inherently a failure of care.

Sometimes death is where care is needed most.

What My Children Learned From Sam

One of the greatest gifts of this experience has been watching my children understand something about death that many adults struggle to accept.

They are devastated.

Especially Addie.

Of course they are.

This was the cat who guarded her before she was even born.

There is no version of losing him that wouldn’t hurt.

But alongside their sadness, both of my children have expressed gratitude.

They are grateful Sam was home.

They are grateful they got to say goodbye.

They are grateful they were able to love him through the end.

And they understand that our goal wasn’t to keep Sam alive because we weren’t ready.

Our goal was to take care of Sam.

That included being willing to let him go.

What an extraordinary lesson for children to learn about love.

Love is not possession.

Love is not always preventing loss.

Sometimes love looks like fighting like hell to save someone.

And sometimes love looks like recognizing when the fight is over and saying:

You don’t have to stay for me.

Love can mean feeding someone.

Carrying them.

Cleaning them.

Sitting beside them.

Making them comfortable.

Advocating for them when they cannot speak.

And eventually, love can mean giving them permission to leave.

My children learned that grief and gratitude can exist in the same room.

They learned that death can be sad without being frightening.

They learned that a body dying does not erase the life that came before it.

And they learned that advocacy sometimes means making a difficult decision because you believe it honors the one you love—not because it makes the loss easier for you.

Those are lessons Sam gave them.

And I will always be grateful for that.

Fifteen Years Because We Were “Just Looking”

I keep thinking about that day in 2012.

A family walked into an animal shelter just to look.

An older cat sat in an isolated cage because his person had died.

He hadn’t even officially been checked in yet.

He reached through the cage and rubbed against my fingers.

That tiny moment changed the next 15 years of our lives.

We gave Marquee another home.

He became Samson.

Then Sam.

He became a companion.

A mouser.

A head-soaker.

A professional lap thief.

A demanding recipient of affection.

A friend to Kitty.

A guardian to Addie.

A fixture in our home.

A member of our family.

And eventually, an old man who needed us to carry him.

It was our privilege to do it.

Being able to care for someone at the end of their life is one of the greatest honors I have ever experienced. I felt it with my hospice patients. I felt it with my grandparents.

And today, I felt it with Sam.

Death deserves respect.

Death deserves dignity.

And when circumstances allow, I believe death deserves choices.

We were fortunate enough to give Sam his.

When his ashes come home, we will spread them in our backyard.

His kingdom.

The place where he wandered, hunted, explored and ruled for so many years.

And I imagine there will be a thousand little moments in the coming months when one of us expects to hear scratching at a bedroom door, feels like there should be a giant cat occupying a lap, or instinctively wonders:

Why is Sam wet?

And it will hurt.

But I hope eventually we will laugh more often than we cry.

Because what a gift it was to have a cat worth grieving this much.

Thank you for finding us, Marquee.

Thank you for becoming Samson.

Thank you for being our Sam.

You were brave and strong until the very end.

You took such good care of our family.

It was an honor to take care of you.

Rest well, sweet boy. Your kingdom is safe.