Tigger
The cat of my heart died last Sunday evening. It's taken me this long to write about it, because he was my boy in every way that counted.
I remember my daughter choosing him from a litter of barn kittens, and actually recoiling, because he was filthy, covered in vermin, sick with a cold, and honestly, the ugliest kitten I'd ever seen. Bathing him wasn't an improvement; in fact, he looked even worse when he was clean.
He cost me a small fortune in heartache and vet bills during his first year, because he was constantly sick and needed round-the-clock care. The only way to keep him comfortable was to let him settle on our chests, because he needed our body heat and the beating of our hearts to stay calm when he had trouble breathing. Even when he finally regained his health, he was never able to breathe properly through his nose, and the cleanup of cat snot was a neverending chore.
With all that, though, he grew up into a beautiful cat, inside and out. He stoically put up with being dressed up, taken for "walks" and constant cuddles from my daughter and her friends. He mentored a series of younger cats, helped comfort my mother in her final illness (as she'd helped him as a kitten), and insinuated himself into the hearts of every member of my dog-loving family.
He was at the door waiting for me every day when I came home, and slept on my pillow every night, because the foot of the bed wasn't good enough for him. All you had to do was look at him, and he'd cry to be picked up, and then deafen you with his purrs, and he loved trying to groom us. Nothing phased him: not dogs, other cats, strangers or loud and unexpected noises. He just liked to mellow out and be comfortable, and he loved company.
As a young adult he swallowed down most of a spool of thread, and endured major abdominal surgery to get it all out. He was a tough guy, but a real marshmallow on the inside.
He only started showing his age in the last year, when he lost his beautiful ruff, but his personality never changed. When he lost his appetite and started spending time alone, I realized that he was tired and getting close to the end. I wish now that I'd had the courage to bring him into the vet and put him to sleep earlier, but I put it off too long, trying to keep him at home in familiar surroundings as long as possible.
We buried him in the back yard, where he liked to lie in the sun.
He was sixteen years old, and the house is empty without him.
