- Joined
- Sep 17, 2020
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- Purraise
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Tiger died over a decade ago, and it still feels like I'm missing a limb. In less than twenty-four hours, I lost one of my best friends, and it kicked off my first major depressive break.
Until that morning, she seemed fine. She slept on my bed the morning before. (She was a bed hog. You moved over an inch and she'd wiggle into the warm spot you left behind. We complained about it, but no one really minded because she was Tiger, and nothing Tiger did could ever be wrong.) She trotted about the house, pretty as you please, and there was this eternal bounce in her step, the one that told you, without even looking, that she was coming up to you and you were going to pet her or rub her belly or her get her something to eat or let her outside or whatever she needed, because she was Tiger and we would have done anything for her. I'd've moved mountains for her.
She was such a sweetheart. I never realized how much of our world revolved around her. I never realized how much room she took up until after she died. She was so big. Not her size, but her presence. She was huge. She filled you up. The world was a better place for having her in it.
She was everyone's friend. When new neighbors moved in, Tiger was their first friend in the neighborhood. Our next door neighbor, who doesn't really like cats at all, planted a catnip in her garden, just for her. And she was beautiful. Everyone said it. And her fur was so soft, like she never grew out of her kitten fluff. Really, she never grew out of being a kitten, period. This is the cat who would stand on her scratching post and start chasing her tail. She'd spin around and around and around until she ended up turning too tight and she'd lose her balance. She'd end up with her bottom in the air and her head down by the ground, kind of tilted and looking astonished as to how she got there. hen she'd hop back on top and give you a look that said, "What?"
She wasn't clumsy, though. She was grace embodied. I remember watching documentaries of big cats in the wild, looking at the way they move and seeing Tiger there. The way she walked, the way her muscles moved, the way she held herself when she was hunting, was exactly like watching one of her big cousins on the screen.
She was cute, too. She'd stand on her hind legs and bat at your thigh if you weren't paying attention to her, or at the doorknob if she wanted to go outside. She'd snuggle up next to you on the bed, and if she woke up she'd make this "Brrt?" noise and reach over and touch her paw to your face.
When I was in high school, taking the bus home, she'd see me coming from up the street and run up to meet me. When we went for walks in the evening, we'd have to keep an eye out to make sure she wasn't following us; we walked on busy streets sometimes and it just wouldn't have been safe for her.
She'd roll onto her back and want you to rub her belly--not a trap, she genuinely wanted belly rubs. She'd come find you, whether you were inside reading a book or outside doing yard work, and she'd sit and keep you company. Sometimes she would play--with pant legs hanging from the clothesline if you were doing laundry, or with the hay piles if you were covering the strawberries, or with leaves if you were raking--but mostly she'd just sit and keep you company.
She loved going outside. All our cats are indoor cats, now, but we didn't really know better back then. Tiger, she'd get restless if she had to stay in all day. Warm sunny days were her favorite, of course, and she could literally spend all day outside if we let her. But even the days she didn't like, where it was raining or there was a foot of the snow on the ground, even that wouldn't keep her away from the outdoors. You'd open the door for her and say, "You're not gonna like it out there, little girl!" and she'd take a step or two outside and give you this look that said, "This weather is disgusting." And you'd open the door wider for her, offering to let her back in, and she'd blink at you and head out anyway, under the car or onto the porch or wherever she could be outside and still have some cover.
She loved to sleep on our beds, preferably with us to join her. She had any number of favorite places to sleep that wouldn't have been comfortable to me, anywhere from laundry baskets full of old clothes to files full of paper and everywhere in between. I once caught her sound asleep on top of the books on one of my shelves. She'd sleep in our drawers if we left them open, and on discarded clothing that hadn't made it to the hamper--anything that smelled like her people was a plus for her.
She loved us. Knew that we loved her. That's important.
She had this purple cat toy, a long fuzzy thing on a stick that we kept in the front hall closet, and she would come get you when she wanted to play with it. I always loved that. It made sense that she'd come get you for food or water or to go outside, but I loved that she'd come get you when she wanted to play with you, too. So you'd get the toy out of the closet, and then she'd hide (gotta get under cover) and you'd flick the toy at her and she'd spring out and pounce on it. Her eyes would get so wide when she was playing, it was hard to remember she was eleven years old.
That's not that old for a cat. Somewhere in her early sixties, in human years. (If Tiger had been human, she'd have been one of those little old ladies who still went skydiving and hang gliding and loved every minute of it.)
And she was fine. She was fine, until she wasn't. My dad noticed she wouldn't really purr one morning. That evening, after dinner, we noticed she was standing and walking funny. Hunched over, like she was in pain. She was lethargic--not unresponsive, but clearly not feeling well. Mum and I looked her over to see if she had any bites or something, and as we held her, one of her legs developed a tremor. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was our first clue that this was serious. Later, as we were getting ready to take her to an emergency clinic, I was sitting with her in the dining room. She was sitting wrong, hunched over again, and with her paws held straight out in front of her instead of folded under. At one point, she shook all over, just for a second.
I held her in my arms on the way to the clinic--she hated the carrier, and we didn't have the heart to force her when she was feeling so bad--and she spent most of the ride with her head on my arm, just too sick to hold it up. We got there, and they took her temperature (normal, even a bit low--no infection). A physical exam showed that her stomach hurt. (I already knew that.) They did an x-ray. It was normal, except for a slightly thickened section of one part of her stomach, which could mean any number of things. They decided we should leave her there the night, because they couldn't tell what was wrong, but something clearly was, and cats don't let you know they're sick unless it's serious.. She watched us over the vet's shoulder when they took her away, and that image haunts me and my mom, especially. The last time she saw her, we were letting a stranger take her away.
We got a call at 4:15am. She'd gone into respiratory arrest.
They had her on a ventilator so we could go see her. We said goodbye. We decided they would just stop breathing for her. There was a chance -- a teeny tiny non-existent one--that she could have started again on her own. If not, her heart would eventually stop, and just in case they kept a shot on hand to end it if she didn't go easy. Her heartbeat gradually slowed down, but then she started shaking, and they helped her along so she didn't suffer.
We sat with her for maybe an hour afterward, and we brought her ashes home a couple days later. I held her in my arms when we brought her there, and I held her when we brought her home. Told her we were taking her home and she didn't need to worry anymore. They took a print of her paw in clay, with her name on it, which is really pretty. I keep it leaned up against her urn.
We did not want them doing a necropsy. (I was adamant that no one was going to be cutting up my little girl, and my parents didn't see the point since it's not like it would help her.) I stand by that decision, but the downside is that we don't actually know what took her from us. One vet suggested a brain tumor, one suggested parasites, but neither would commit to anything without evidence, obviously. Periodically, I go diving down through the internet, trying to find something that matches her symptoms and making myself very sad. (That's what led to me making this post today.) Any time I find something that seems to fit (a stroke, or poisoning, or things like that) the internet will say that vomiting is a major symptom, and that's one thing that didn't seem to bother her. Her stomach hurt, but she didn't seem nauseated.
You know, it's funny, the day she died was May 21st, 2011, which was a day that a bunch of people were convinced was going to be the end of the world. They were right, in a way. My world did end that day. Building up a new world after that has been very difficult. I'm in a fairly good place right now, I have a steady job and hobbies I enjoy, and it fills up most of the emptiness, but there will always, always be a Tiger-shaped hole in my heart.
Ah, I'm crying now. Little girl, little girl. I miss you, honey. We all do. We miss you and we love you so much.
Until that morning, she seemed fine. She slept on my bed the morning before. (She was a bed hog. You moved over an inch and she'd wiggle into the warm spot you left behind. We complained about it, but no one really minded because she was Tiger, and nothing Tiger did could ever be wrong.) She trotted about the house, pretty as you please, and there was this eternal bounce in her step, the one that told you, without even looking, that she was coming up to you and you were going to pet her or rub her belly or her get her something to eat or let her outside or whatever she needed, because she was Tiger and we would have done anything for her. I'd've moved mountains for her.
She was such a sweetheart. I never realized how much of our world revolved around her. I never realized how much room she took up until after she died. She was so big. Not her size, but her presence. She was huge. She filled you up. The world was a better place for having her in it.
She was everyone's friend. When new neighbors moved in, Tiger was their first friend in the neighborhood. Our next door neighbor, who doesn't really like cats at all, planted a catnip in her garden, just for her. And she was beautiful. Everyone said it. And her fur was so soft, like she never grew out of her kitten fluff. Really, she never grew out of being a kitten, period. This is the cat who would stand on her scratching post and start chasing her tail. She'd spin around and around and around until she ended up turning too tight and she'd lose her balance. She'd end up with her bottom in the air and her head down by the ground, kind of tilted and looking astonished as to how she got there. hen she'd hop back on top and give you a look that said, "What?"
She wasn't clumsy, though. She was grace embodied. I remember watching documentaries of big cats in the wild, looking at the way they move and seeing Tiger there. The way she walked, the way her muscles moved, the way she held herself when she was hunting, was exactly like watching one of her big cousins on the screen.
She was cute, too. She'd stand on her hind legs and bat at your thigh if you weren't paying attention to her, or at the doorknob if she wanted to go outside. She'd snuggle up next to you on the bed, and if she woke up she'd make this "Brrt?" noise and reach over and touch her paw to your face.
When I was in high school, taking the bus home, she'd see me coming from up the street and run up to meet me. When we went for walks in the evening, we'd have to keep an eye out to make sure she wasn't following us; we walked on busy streets sometimes and it just wouldn't have been safe for her.
She'd roll onto her back and want you to rub her belly--not a trap, she genuinely wanted belly rubs. She'd come find you, whether you were inside reading a book or outside doing yard work, and she'd sit and keep you company. Sometimes she would play--with pant legs hanging from the clothesline if you were doing laundry, or with the hay piles if you were covering the strawberries, or with leaves if you were raking--but mostly she'd just sit and keep you company.
She loved going outside. All our cats are indoor cats, now, but we didn't really know better back then. Tiger, she'd get restless if she had to stay in all day. Warm sunny days were her favorite, of course, and she could literally spend all day outside if we let her. But even the days she didn't like, where it was raining or there was a foot of the snow on the ground, even that wouldn't keep her away from the outdoors. You'd open the door for her and say, "You're not gonna like it out there, little girl!" and she'd take a step or two outside and give you this look that said, "This weather is disgusting." And you'd open the door wider for her, offering to let her back in, and she'd blink at you and head out anyway, under the car or onto the porch or wherever she could be outside and still have some cover.
She loved to sleep on our beds, preferably with us to join her. She had any number of favorite places to sleep that wouldn't have been comfortable to me, anywhere from laundry baskets full of old clothes to files full of paper and everywhere in between. I once caught her sound asleep on top of the books on one of my shelves. She'd sleep in our drawers if we left them open, and on discarded clothing that hadn't made it to the hamper--anything that smelled like her people was a plus for her.
She loved us. Knew that we loved her. That's important.
She had this purple cat toy, a long fuzzy thing on a stick that we kept in the front hall closet, and she would come get you when she wanted to play with it. I always loved that. It made sense that she'd come get you for food or water or to go outside, but I loved that she'd come get you when she wanted to play with you, too. So you'd get the toy out of the closet, and then she'd hide (gotta get under cover) and you'd flick the toy at her and she'd spring out and pounce on it. Her eyes would get so wide when she was playing, it was hard to remember she was eleven years old.
That's not that old for a cat. Somewhere in her early sixties, in human years. (If Tiger had been human, she'd have been one of those little old ladies who still went skydiving and hang gliding and loved every minute of it.)
And she was fine. She was fine, until she wasn't. My dad noticed she wouldn't really purr one morning. That evening, after dinner, we noticed she was standing and walking funny. Hunched over, like she was in pain. She was lethargic--not unresponsive, but clearly not feeling well. Mum and I looked her over to see if she had any bites or something, and as we held her, one of her legs developed a tremor. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was our first clue that this was serious. Later, as we were getting ready to take her to an emergency clinic, I was sitting with her in the dining room. She was sitting wrong, hunched over again, and with her paws held straight out in front of her instead of folded under. At one point, she shook all over, just for a second.
I held her in my arms on the way to the clinic--she hated the carrier, and we didn't have the heart to force her when she was feeling so bad--and she spent most of the ride with her head on my arm, just too sick to hold it up. We got there, and they took her temperature (normal, even a bit low--no infection). A physical exam showed that her stomach hurt. (I already knew that.) They did an x-ray. It was normal, except for a slightly thickened section of one part of her stomach, which could mean any number of things. They decided we should leave her there the night, because they couldn't tell what was wrong, but something clearly was, and cats don't let you know they're sick unless it's serious.. She watched us over the vet's shoulder when they took her away, and that image haunts me and my mom, especially. The last time she saw her, we were letting a stranger take her away.
We got a call at 4:15am. She'd gone into respiratory arrest.
They had her on a ventilator so we could go see her. We said goodbye. We decided they would just stop breathing for her. There was a chance -- a teeny tiny non-existent one--that she could have started again on her own. If not, her heart would eventually stop, and just in case they kept a shot on hand to end it if she didn't go easy. Her heartbeat gradually slowed down, but then she started shaking, and they helped her along so she didn't suffer.
We sat with her for maybe an hour afterward, and we brought her ashes home a couple days later. I held her in my arms when we brought her there, and I held her when we brought her home. Told her we were taking her home and she didn't need to worry anymore. They took a print of her paw in clay, with her name on it, which is really pretty. I keep it leaned up against her urn.
We did not want them doing a necropsy. (I was adamant that no one was going to be cutting up my little girl, and my parents didn't see the point since it's not like it would help her.) I stand by that decision, but the downside is that we don't actually know what took her from us. One vet suggested a brain tumor, one suggested parasites, but neither would commit to anything without evidence, obviously. Periodically, I go diving down through the internet, trying to find something that matches her symptoms and making myself very sad. (That's what led to me making this post today.) Any time I find something that seems to fit (a stroke, or poisoning, or things like that) the internet will say that vomiting is a major symptom, and that's one thing that didn't seem to bother her. Her stomach hurt, but she didn't seem nauseated.
You know, it's funny, the day she died was May 21st, 2011, which was a day that a bunch of people were convinced was going to be the end of the world. They were right, in a way. My world did end that day. Building up a new world after that has been very difficult. I'm in a fairly good place right now, I have a steady job and hobbies I enjoy, and it fills up most of the emptiness, but there will always, always be a Tiger-shaped hole in my heart.
Ah, I'm crying now. Little girl, little girl. I miss you, honey. We all do. We miss you and we love you so much.
