The title to this post is a lie. There’s actually an enormous hole in my life, not just a Tig-sized one. For the past eleven years, I had an orange, fluffy, loving goofball in my life. Every day that I was home, Tig was at my feet, under my feet, on my feet, around my feet, near my feet—his presence was known. Gracie spends hours on her own every day. She’s absolutely fine sleeping upstairs and coming down only when she’s hungry or wants attention. Tig was my shadow. Tig generally slept upstairs when I wasn’t home, and when he heard me come through the door, he’d be off my bed in a flash and walking slowly down the stairs, literally blinking the sleep out of his eyes.
Today would have been Tig’s eleventh birthday.
I want my Tig back.
I want the cat that followed me everywhere. If I went upstairs, he went upstairs. When I went to the bathroom, Tig followed me into the bathroom. And jumped up on the sink to drink from it while I needed to wash my hands. And complained when I pushed him away from the faucet. If I neglected to pay enough attention to him, he would rear up on his hind legs and rest his paws either on the soap dish or on my back. When I opened the medicine cabinet, he felt it was his duty to investigate it. When the closet was open, he leaped onto the shelf as soon as I turned my back. If I took a bath, he climbed on the side of the tub and meowed until I got out. When I took a shower, as soon as the water went off, he’d push the door open and come into the bathroom. Unless he felt like scaring me half to death by climbing onto the side of the tub and sitting there, without my knowledge, until I yanked back the shower curtain and saw Tig.
Back when I lived in Montclair, Tig’s kitty condo was near the door. “Come say goodbye,” I’d tell him as I left. He’d leap up onto the top of the condo for a goodbye skritch. He was generally the last thing I saw as I left my apartment, and the first thing I saw coming home. He knew the sound of my car, and ran to the window or the door when he heard it. Ran out the door more often than not, but then came right back in again to be picked up for a “snug” and a hello. That’s a snug in the picture in this post. Mostly. It’s the last picture taken of my boy, less than an hour before Tig left me forever.
I work from home four days a week. Tig went in and out dozens of times a day when I was home. He loved that I was home. It meant he got to go outside whenever he wanted, and that he could be around me 24 hours a day instead of only 14. Before and after naptime (around ten in the morning until midafternoon), Tig was in and out and in and out and in and out. Or he’d sleep in the kitchen chair next to the one I sit in. Or on the shelf, or the kitty condo—but nearly always in sight or in reach. When he got sick, he was always nearby. Even when he didn’t sleep in my bedroom, he slept upstairs in the office. On his last night on earth, he came into my bedroom one last time—because he knew I would make it better. Somehow, someway, he trusted me to make the pain go away.
I want my Tig back. And since I can’t have him, I have changed my mind. I don’t care that Gracie wants to be an only cat. I don’t care that she’s going to fight with a new cat. Gracie is boring. She doesn’t want to play. She doesn’t follow me around. And she hates being picked up.
I want a new orange goofball, preferably a Maine Coon mix, preferably a kitten. Male.
I need to repair that hole in my life. I want a new Tig.
Seriously. If any of my readers are within some kind of driving distance of Richmond, and hear about an orange Maine Coon mix, or even a purebred, I want it. Not an old, sick cat. I can’t bear that again. A baby. One that I can raise as my third Tigger. I’d like to get two, but I think that would be too much while Gracie is still around. And I’m not waiting until she’s gone.
I’ve had an orange cat named Tigger since 1983. My first Tig was a bright orange, long-haired boy who loved everyone and who sat in my lap the second I sat down, anywhere. I had him for thirteen and a half years. The second one, well, you’ve read all about him. Time for the next generation of Tig.
Time for new Tigger stories.
This post hits me especially hard, for obvious reasons.
For us, it’s too soon. We don’t know when the time will be right, but we’ll know it when we know it.
Tigger sounds a lot like Matata. A cat with personality who loved being with his Special Person. Cats like that leave a big, gaping hole in our lives when they leave us.
Absolutely right, Meryl, when the late lamented Ptolomy passed, I said ‘No more dogs’. That lasted about 4 days. The cats missed canine companionship too, so within a week there was a new kid in town.
I think this is a great decision Meryl. You should visit the local shelters in intervals. You might not find your ideal kitty the first time, but it won’t take too many visits to find a nice fluffy little darling. Pick one as young as possible, young enough to grow up used to human touch, and they’ll be a much better companion.
I’m one who was raised never knowing what it was like to have a pet, and never appreciating the value they bring to our lives. Last year, I began to understand why my brother wept when his cat died a number of years ago. I got to babysit a kitten for a few months last year and he became a part of my life, I really fell in love with the little, needy beatiful creature. I myself am now considering getting an orange little furball of a kitten. I’m sorry for your loss, he was a beautiful cat.
I have a nineteen year old Siamese katz that has been an important part of my life since he was three months old, and know his time will also come.
Your saga is preparing me for the inevitable.
Looking forward to your new beginning. Please post images of your new kitty after you bring him/her home.
Good luck on your search!
Him. It’s definitely going to be a male. I’ve found them to be more affectionate and tractable. And goofy.
Best of luck finding Tigger III. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.
Hang in there, Meryl. It definitely sucks, I know. I still occasionally have dreams about Spencer (my old beagle), and he’s been dead since ’99. That’s interesting though that you’ve had other Tiggers. I had thought about getting another beagle, but then I realized (that aside from other issues like financial) it wasn’t a good idea. There was only one Spence, and another beagle would mean a whole other dog. I couldn’t replace him. Cats may be different though; I never had one.
Reading about Tig brought back memories of Krissie who was much the same, always there. She used to curl up in my bed by my head and sleep there. And fart in my face, I never forgot that. They do leave a big hole in your life. A new Tig sounds like a great idea. More kitty to love.
I don’t think I could ever have another Edloe, Piper, or Frisky.
But Nardo… sure. He’s a big smelly pest.
Who wants the original one?
It took me a few months after I lost Greta before I was ready for another cat, Meryl. In my case–we are all different in how we deal with this sort of thing–I intentionally did not get another creamsicle (orange and white) cat because I thought I might well be looking for another Greta, which might be unfair to the successor.
In the event I got the gray and white tabby Ingrid and things have worked out fine.
http://hittingmetalwithahammer.wordpress.com/2008/02/19/jessica-t-hill/
Meryl,
Go to PetFinders.com, type in your zip code, limit the search to Maine Coons and you’ll see a lot. Very few are orange, some of the kittens are female, but, eventually, something might pop up at one of the shelters. Since you visit No. Va. frequently, there might be some possibilities there.
There’s an orange, Domestic Long Hair/MC mix at Pet Guardian in Va. Beach, but he’s two years old, perhaps older than you want. I’ll email the page separately.
My sister’s friend has a Maine Coon and he is always harassing my sister’s dog, which doesn’t make me too happy. Still, people tell me, if I had a cat, I’d probably like Maine Coons best, since I like dogs. (Not that I don’t like cats, I just don’t have any pets right now).
The website at the SPCA of No Va says spring and summer tends to be cat season when they are flooded with kittens and cats for adoption.
Meryl, I feel very deeply for you. I have my own Tigger except his name is Munch. He’s a bit overweight like me and looks a lot like your Tig.
I call him my Puppy-Cat, most times he’ll come when called.
He’s getting up there in age, ~ 15 years old now. So I know his time with us is almost gone
I hope you find another love like that soon.
Laurence, since you asked, I’d like to borrow the “big, smelly pest” for several minutes, just long enough to give him some skritches, assuming he’ll allow that. But only a few minutes, because I know you’ll want him back immediately if not sooner.
Our Red Wull died last week. He used to flop down on the floor by me while I worked on the computer. He’d join in the big ball of cats that occupied the bed when we were gone.
He had come from an animal shelter here. No one wanted him, we guessed, because he was older and because he didn’t have a tail. He got named after a tailless dog in a novel.
His health started getting tricky over the last year; fleas, arthritis, finickyness about eating … but this time it was worse. The vet said he had a mass in his liver.
They let us say good-bye to him. He’s buried in the back yard now with the other cats that have passed on.
The other cats in the house know something’s wrong. Two of them are looking at me now.
We know what you are missing.