This is the special story of Tigger. I have shared most of my life with cats, typically 3-6 of them at any time. Though Pippin is my current favourite, Tigger remains the most dear to me. Let me tell you why.
When I was a young teen, living in rural Oxfordshire in England, my parents promised me a new cat. We drove a ways to an animal shelter (we always adopt cats). Naturally, I wanted a kitten and there were hundreds walking around in a huge indoor space. I had my heart set on this tiny, cute silver kitten, but it was yet too young to leave its mother. I kept looking at all the other kittens, but all the while this adorable little orange cat kept following me everywhere I went. He adopted me! Well I had to take him with me then, so that was the cat I chose – Tigger.
He didn't even need a cat carrier. He was so enamoured with me (and I with him) that he just curled up on my lap in the car and went to sleep. Incidentally, the only cat I have ever lived with that didn't mind being in the car.
Tigger was a red tabby, Maine Coon cross and wasn't he handsome? He was the friendliest cat, often too much so. As he grew up, he had a fondness for sitting in the middle of the road. House cats are not a common thing in England as they are in America. Most cats roamed free, coming into the house through their own kitty door. Luckily, the road in our residential area was curvy and no one seemed to speed. It was not uncommon for a driver to have to stop, get out of his car and lift Tigger to the sidewalk. Oh yes, Tigger adored the attention! He was a real character.
His favourite spot to sleep was on the back of our TV, one of those huge CRT kinds from the 70's and 80's. The vent at the back made a toasty spot for him to sprawl out. A common source of amusement was when he relaxed too much and we'd hear this frantic scrabbling sound as he rolled off the back of the TV. It never stopped him, however.
This is where the story turns sad but becomes most special. Tissues at the ready folks. We lived in a two-floor house and as Tigger reached a grand old age (incredible that he never got run over!) he lost interest in climbing the steep stairs to the second-floor. One weekend afternoon, I was sitting on my bedroom floor (I don't remember what I was doing) when in walked Tigger. My mother later told me that it had taken him ages to clamber up one stair after the other, taking several rests. Surprised to see him, I of course made a huge fuss of him. Purring, he curled up in a ball next to me on the floor… and died.
Whenever I feel down, I think of my special Tigger.
Whenever I feel that things are getting tough, I remember that my cat Tigger climbed agonizingly up the stairs to share his final moments with me.
I hope that pet heaven has plenty of warm TV grilles and no stairs.
