Tigger’s farewell tour

The vet wanted another bunch of bloodwork from Tig this week. In spite of the fact that Tig looks better than he has since he was first diagnosed with renal failure, and in spite of the fact that Tig is acting better than he has since he was first diagnosed with renal failure, the bloodwork keeps coming back worse and worse. The vet says it’s bizarre that Tig is acting like he’s feeling so well when he is getting sicker and sicker by the day. So I am forced to believe that Tig’s remaining time with me is not going to be very long.

Today, I took home a bag of fluid to be administered subcutaneously every other day. Sarah‘s going to try to help me with the first one. I’ll do the scruffing, she’ll do the needle-sticking. Tig will do the hissing, no doubt, and the growling.

He’s not quite eleven. He and Gracie were born around March 15. They were part of two litters of ten-day-old kittens that were dumped at a shelter in a town in NJ, where I was living at the time. I had lost my original Tigger in January, and was obsessed with getting another orange cat. My downstairs neighbor’s daughter was a vet’s assistant at one of the local clinics that fostered the kittens. I had told everyone I knew that I wanted another orange cat to replace The Tig. He was such a great cat that yes, he had a title. My friends would ask me, “How’s the Tig?” during casual conversations. Tigger the Second had big, big paws to fill.

I met him on Easter Sunday, 1997, when my neighbor’s daughter brought Tig and Gracie over to meet me. With Tig, it was love at first sight. And as he grew, I fell more and more in love with him. I loved his long fur, and his great big paws, and his goofy charm. I loved his deep, loud, frequent purrs. I loved the way he had to always be near me, and follow me around the house. He made me laugh, always. As he got older, I started noticing that he looked an awfully lot like a Maine Coon cat. I’d always wanted one of those, but was never willing to pay $500 for a kitten. One afternoon, I chatted with a woman manning a table asking for donations for a local animal shelter. We started talking cats, and I started talking about how Tig hugs me, and how he won’t sit on my lap, but sort of would climb on my torso and roll down until he was lying upside down in my lap. Or he’d sit next to me on the sofa or on the arm of the chair, but never on my lap. Hers too, she told me, and hers was a Maine Coon. So I started looking at pictures online. Tufts of hair on the ears, check. Hair between his toes, check. Big, ringed, fluffy tail—markings, fur, check, check, check. I had, after all those years of wanting, a Maine Coon cat.

Tig is my great big goofball. I taught him how to stand up on command. I’ve never had a cat that would do that. He can still do it, sick as he is. He has never, ever failed to make me laugh or smile on a daily basis. Just this past Tuesday, I packed most of my clothes for a two-day business trip to Northern VA, then went downstairs to eat breakfast. Tig was sound asleep in his box when I left the room. I heard some strange noises from upstairs but didn’t have time to do more than wonder what he was doing. The picture above is what he was doing. Making me laugh, just by sleeping.

Tig used to sleep next to me every single night. On many nights, I wished he wouldn’t, because he also used to yowl in my ear at 3 a.m. when he was bored and wanted me to wake up and pet him. I once woke up and found four or five of his toys scattered around my hand. He’d dropped them near me while I was sleeping and waited for me to wake up and throw them. Lately, though, Tig avoids the bedroom. Something about it frightened him, and he stopped sleeping in the bed for a long, long time. That didn’t stop him from standing next to it at four a.m., yowling for me to get up and pet him. It’s gotten worse now, though. The second he sets foot in my room he starts licking himself compulsively. The last time he came in, he ran to the window. I opened the closet door and he dashed inside. I don’t know what it is about my room that scares him, but I do know that I miss having him on the pillow next to mine, purring himself to sleep. Or asking for a bellyrub last thing at night. He doesn’t want bellyrubs any more. He doesn’t lie on his back any more. And his belly, well, it’s not really there. Last time he got a bellyrub, I could feel his ribs. Now, Tig sleeps in a box in my office. I found him in it a week or so ago, and took it down from a pile of boxes so that he wouldn’t have to work too hard to get to it. And I filled it with towels. I check it first thing every morning, and last thing every night. Last week, when it was very cold out, I had a scare: I reached in to pet Tig, and he was cold to the touch, and he wouldn’t wake. It was just his fur in the cooler air of winter, and the lethargy from kidney disease, but I thought he was gone.

He’s going to be gone one day, and I’m afraid it’s going to be sooner rather than later. I hope he just passes in his sleep, frankly. I’ve already decided that I’m paying the extra for a housecall from the vet if it’s needed. I will not put him in the carrier that one last time. When he goes, he’s going here, preferably in my arms.

I do think there’s something for us after we’re gone. I really hope that our cats go wherever we go. I’ll be just fine with both Tigs, and all the other cats in my life.

But I wish I didn’t have to say goodbye to Tig this year. Really. I was hoping for another five years.

I am really going to miss my goofball.