On the morning of 22 March 2010. Unknown to me Big Momma decided to have one of the cat's put down. Tigger. He was the most kind gentle and easy going cat I have ever known. I will no longer greet him in the morning with a fuss and the imitable words "who loves ya baby." The whole experience has been pretty sad. I had no say, or no last words, or no last cuddle or stroke of my four legged feline friend. So I was pretty pissed off. Especially as I went to hit the hay and begin the usual routine to ensure I kicked him out off my room (he was a resltess farty sleeper) and closed the door to make sure he couldn't disturb me. Except this time he was not there. Surprised and not sure why I went to look for him and could not spy him hiding anywhere. It was then I was told he was no longer alive.
The thing which gets me, was poor Old Man Tigger, still had a couple of more years of life in him. He was healthier than he had been in ages. OK he suffered from arthritis, had catarachs and needed an operation because of a liver problem and I'm informed had a weak heart. But he gave his love so freely, he demanded attention to be let out. He scoffed up one plate after another of biscuits and purred like a steam train while doing so. I don't know how but he even learnt to say a very close cat "hello" putting the right inflection just at the right moment in his "meow." He was healthier because momma had actually bothered to take him to the vet after he'd had a spell of illness. An infection I think, with some anti biotics he was on top of the world. Alright, he liked to have a good crap in the middle of the night, in exactly the same place. So there was always newspaper there. However, no matter how many times I advised his biscuits and food should be removed at 4 or 5 pm to stop this big momma would not listen. It was after his visit to the vet the concern about his heart and liver came out. Yet he was a happy cat, and as lively as you would expect. For an Old Man of about a score in human years, say 140 in cat years. The vet's were up for giving him the operation, they had done the preliminary work. Scans, blood samples and so on. But Big Momma could not be bothered. She'd had enough of clearing up his crap in the morning. Even though she has no sense of smell. She made the decision, said she was going to do it, but I didn't believe her and then I find out. Gone. No longer here.
I was so angry very angry. She said he had a weak heart, I said "well he bloody has now, it's not functioning at all." Then I said I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. No reply came. I was angry and in disbelief she could do such a thing. A pet of twenty years forms more attachments than most relatives in my case have with me.
The most remarkable memory I have of Tigger is how he thought the world belonged to him. On an incredibly hot days of the summer he had a discerning habit. He'd go into the front garden walking into the middle of the road and just lay down and stretch himself out. Although it was a quiet cul-de-sac road, cars and people still went up and down. Yet for Tigger there was some self oblivion he held. He was meaty, not fat, athletic meaty and could out run or climb any dog in the few short strides that would be needed. When he was a lot younger he had inflicted a cut on a dog and escaped. But as every day passed and age caught up, the little bravery he had, which wasn't really much at all disappeared even more. Other cats could use his garden to walk through and it didn't bother him, he'd just sleep on the grass or ignore them. If they then wanted to beat him up he would let out the loudest whines and we'd then run out to let him in or shoo away his opponent. For him a stroke, love and a bowl of biscuits was his pleasure.
OK it's only a cat. I[ll get over him in a few days, but just this minute I'm mad and sad. Miss you Tigg.
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