When I was five, my parents brought home a tiny little tiger kitten; I named him Tigger (yes, Tigger the Tiger). He was so small, he could fit into a wool hat. And he didn't meow right away, he made a small "eap" type noise. Tig would walk around the apartment "eaping" his little heart out.
When my mother first married Ron, we lived in his "bachelor pad." A second floor, two bedroom apartment with a deck. One day, Tigger and I went out on the deck and found a rather large ant. After a few investigative sniffs, the small kitten ate the ant. I don't think he liked it much, but like a champ he kept it down - protein, you know. At that young age, it appeared he was destined to be a great adventurer.
When we moved to Clifton Street, we used to go on walks through the woods in the backyard, and out to the Manchester Reservoir. Tigger would trot along behind us to the water. More often, Ron would go out to the water with his dog, Shelby, and Tigger would trot out behind them. Tigger was an outdoor cat, so I'm sure he found adventures out on his own as well.
He was also my partner-in-crime. One night, before I was old enough to drive, I got angry at my mom. I left the house and walked out to the woods. Right at the edge, there was a small tree that's trunk branched out perfectly for me to sit on. I grabbed Tigger and we sat up in that tree as the sky continued to grow darker. My mom took Gretel, her Shih Tzu, for a 'walk' around the yard; Tigger and I sat in the tree and watched her. Next, Ron came outside with Gretel and walked around the backyard. Tigger and I still sat in the tree and watched. After a while, Tig and I grew tired of sitting in the tree and went in the house.
Well, everyone experiences the ultimate end to their childhood at some point, for me, it was last night when my mother confirmed that Tigger had been put down on Wednesday. At 20-years-old, he was an old man. A very old man, and he had the rickety bones of age. When cats get old, sometimes they start to even get crusty; Tig had been growing crusty for a while now, and after a long, happy, and very much loved life, it had been closing in on his time to go. I expected it, not that it makes it any less sad.
Tigger was an important part of my childhood. A pet that brought me from a young age, through into adulthood. I now live away from home, my old bedroom in my parents' house no longer feels like escape, and nothing of mine remains there (except one box of kid books my mom hopes I forget are there). I know I've been gone for a while, but Tigger still felt like my childhood, my little man. He trusted me more than he trusted anyone else - there had to be a reason for that. And it was this feeling of comfort knowing he was still there.
When the subject was first broached, I yelled into the phone at my mother, "What are you telling me? Is he dead?" moments after she had just told me he was fine. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I could barely control my sudden burst of fearful rage. For an intense moment, I was convinced I was being lied to. This was maybe a few weeks ago. She had simply wanted to know if I wished to be told when the day was to come so I could come home to say good-bye to him. At first I told her I'd rather just cry after. Then I realized that I wanted to be able to say good-bye before he went. I wanted to make sure he knew that I loved him, one final time.
On that last visit, Tigger and I sat outside in the sun and hung out. In the grass, I petted his soft head and he pushed his weakening body into mine for comfort. I do miss him; he was a fantastic cat. He was strong, handsome, and playful 'til the very end.
I love you, Tig. RIP.
