Hamlet's life:

September 1991 through December 5, 2008

The Gentle Giant. Hammers and Nails. My Dairy Best Friend. Sunpatch. Hamilton. The Buddy, or Buddy-the-Buddha-Bear-Belly. Omelette. Blanket. Hammy the Hamster. Baby Boy. Handsome Lad. Moons Over My Hammy. Purry Furry McMurray.

In October, 1991, I picked him out from a litter at a stranger’s house. The woman had taken in from the streets this large pregnant orange cat whom she felt sorry for. The cat had kittens, and two were orange males. The one I picked out ended up as my Hamlet. He was so small he could fit in the palm of my hand. I remember during the car ride home he sat on my shoulder. When I brought him into my apartment and set him on the couch, he was so scared he pooped right then and there.

But it was not long before Hamlet adjusted well, and grew mightily. He developed neat untrained-for habits, like retrieving tinfoil balls unbidden. During his younger years, he was around lots of people, as my home was a social center. Hamlet loved people, and people loved Hamlet. It seemed that he was given a new nickname by every new acquaintance. One time I heard my neighbors calling “Hamilton!” at him, and I said, “That is so cute that you call him that.” But they had thought it was his true name, so it stuck as a nickname.

When I adopted Charlotte in late 1993, Hamlet did his best to be the big brother, which included occasionally sitting on her, much to her dismay. For some reason, Charlotte always gave way to Hamlet, like when he wanted to eat her food, even though there was not a dog, cat, or person anywhere else to whom Charlotte would kow-tow. Only to Hamlet, her big buddy. He was a lover, not a fighter (e.g. he never killed a single bird or mouse). While Charlotte would scrap about with anyone who dared, Hammy would be content to watch her from afar, ready to try and sit on her when she came back home.

Hamlet loved a good box. Even better? The box’s lid. He would stuff his body into it and use it as resting place and general hangout spot. Eventually, the box’s sides would bust out, and Hamlet would be forced to adopt a fresh, new box.

He loved to butt his head against your hand for pets. He would make the most adorable chirp-brrrt sound in his throat as a kind of greeting. It’s hard to reproduce on paper, but it was like a stifled purr-meow in the throat with the mouth closed that clearly said, “Hello!” He did not meow out loud very much, so when he did I paid attention. Some cats are mega-meowy (e.g. Charlotte) but Ham was definitely a chirper.

Hamlet was, until his geriatric stage, twenty or so pounds of large orange love. He was very big and tall for a kitty. Even before he was truly overweight, he was just plain BIG. He stood at least a cat’s head taller than any other cat I’ve known. I suspected he might have had Maine Coon in his ancestry somewhere. (His momma was BIG, too.) Hamlet had extra toes on each foot as well, so his feet were like giant mittens.

Hamlet and I shared special times together in the morning before work. I would sit on the floor with him, and I would brush his fur. He always wanted to sniff my coffee cup for some reason. Maybe just to make sure, once again, that I was not indeed drinking tuna juice instead! He loved to sleep with me. His body took up a child-size space in the bed, but his sleepy purr was soothing to my soul. He also really liked to bust into the bathroom after my shower to help “dry off” my legs with his tongue.

Like a true companion, Hamlet went with me everywhere. When I moved from Michigan to
Oregon in 1993, there was Ham in the car with me for four straight days. (Poor kitty.) When I decided to try Alaska in 2005, Hammy went with me in the airplane, and Charlotte stayed behind with a good friend due to her illness. After surviving fourteen months of Juneau with me, Hamlet and I returned to Oregon via the Alaskan Marine Highway, and were reunited with Charlotte.

Sadly, due to her health, Charlotte had to be put to sleep on November 28, 2007 at fifteen years of age. Then, after declining rapidly due to geriatric conditions, Hamlet followed in death exactly one year and one week later on December 5, 2008. He was seventeen, plus a few months.

My heart is broken. No more will I hear my Buddy’s chirpy greeting. No more will he be waiting for me when I wake up. No more will I hear his big, extra-toed feet pad into the kitchen after I crack open a delicious can of turkey meat. No more will he ask to be put up onto the bed next to me, so that we can sleep together like an old married couple. No more will I hear his massive, loving purr, so very loud, emanating from his large, sweet head.

I sense his absence everywhere, but most keenly I feel it in my heart, which is a leaden anchor weighed down by grave sorrow. I loved him so very much. There will never, ever be such a kitty in my life again. He was special, unique, so very loving, and forever he will be my Baby Boy. I am eternally grateful he led such a long (and mostly healthy) life with me. He was the Best Buddy I could have asked for.

We buried Hamlet in my boyfriend’s backyard. Getting to experience that closure seemed more natural than not, but it was extremely difficult. But, at least I can wait for the yellow-orange azalea planted on top of his grave to bloom next spring, which will show that life continues despite my pain. Its colorful beauty will remind me of him and his large, adorable, sunshine-y face.

Goodbye, my Hammykins. I miss you every moment of every day.