Samantha

This morning as I was watching TV...no wait, I was doing laundry and sweeping litter from the floor...I started thinking about my first cat, Samantha.
My mom thinks I got her when I was 4. She says I had not started Kindergarten yet, and I started Kindergarten right after I turned 5.
I named her Samantha Thomasina Pussycat. Samantha because my favorite show was Bewitched. Thomasina was from a cat in a Disney movie. And Pussycat was her last name. This was my first foray into naming animals, and until Little Man came along, I've always chosen real names (not Fluffy or Spot). And Baby was already named when we got her, in case you're keeping track.
Samantha was a fluffy black cat with an undertone of tortoiseshell. She had green eyes and was an indoor/outdoor cat. She was welcome inside the house, but she went outside whenever she wanted. She had no litterbox in the house. When she wanted to go out, she sat beside the door until someone saw her and opened it (we lived in a really, really small house). When she wanted inside, she pawed at the door until someone opened it. If we ever left her in the house too long, and no one was there to let her out, she would potty in the bathtub - number one down the drain and number two at the other end of the tub. Now, that may sound gross, but it was so easy to clean and sanitize the tub after her accident, and that was better than cleaning it out of carpet (my mom would have had a cow!). I always thought that that was very considerate of her to choose the bathtub. It probably only happened twice in her life anyway so she can be forgiven.
She wasn't a super cuddly cat, but she was friendly and liked to be petted, and she slept on my bed at night.
Samantha had two litters of kittens before we got her fixed. I loved those kittens - they were fluffy and cuddly and all different colors. In the summer, my mom would set up our tent in the side yard, and I would play house in the tent. I tormented those kittens by dressing them in baby doll clothes.
When I was in high school, I read Pet Cemetary by Stephen King. For awhile, I was a little scared of Samantha. The book spooked me a little bit, and sometimes, I wouldn't let her sleep with me, but I eventually got over it.
Then I went away to college and had to leave Samantha behind. She died when I was 21 or 22 so she lived about 17 years. My mom called me with the news, and she was more upset than I was. Samantha was as much the family cat as she was my cat. I guess I'm feeling a little nostalgic today. And I can't help but think about cats when I'm sweeping litter.