I Love You, Tigg

I was a dog person. And I never wanted a cat. But a co-worker was not able to take care of his five-year-old tabby cat and planned on bringing him to the animal shelter.

With utmost hesitation, I nevertheless offered to adopt him. I loved the cartoon cats, Garfield and Heathcliff, so why not?

It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Driving home, he meowed loudly as the pet carrier frantically bounced up and down as he tried to escape his mini-prison. Already the pangs of regrets clawed up and down my back (cat pun definitely intended).

Back at the house, I welcomed the bundle of energy into his new home. He ran all over the house: To the main living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, then up the stairs; and when couldn't enter any of the closed rooms, he returned downstairs and hid underneath the dining table.

My Pekingese, Gizmo, silently observed his new brother running around. Gizmo was a friendly dog and he didn't mind the new orange stranger.

The following day, Tigger made his mark on various carpeted areas. I felt asking for a refund or something as if Tigger was an Amazon order. I spent most of the day hunting for his urine and cleaning them up.

On the third day, he stopped hiding from me. I figured that it was time to give him a hug. I mean, it should be easy right? Gizmo loved being hugged and petted.

He purred gently then rolled over on his back. It's as if he was inviting me to do something.

So what did I do? I tickled his belly.

I swear, it was like a scene from a slasher movie. It happened all so fast that I didn't realize that he scratched both of my forearms. I numble stared at my scratches while Tigger continued to hide under the kitchen table.

For the next few weeks, I was a glutton for punishment. I must be able to tickle that belly!

I tried every makeshift protection I could think of: towels wrapped around my arms; old long-sleeved shirts; and even Gizmo's pee pads. Nothing worked, because if Tigger couldn't feel my forearm, he found my other exposed skin to mutilate. ("Mutilate" might be a tad harsh. "Butcher"? Yes, that's more accurate.)

As the third month came to an end, I accepted the brutal fact that I won't be able to tickle Tigger's belly. I didn't even attempt to carry him as I had developed PTSD from this cruel war.

I worked the night shift in I.T. at a local casino. It was a stressful night where I endured angry people blaming me for not knowing what their passwords were and angrily asking why the company had to do a system-wide update on a busy Friday night.

At around 12:30 am, I was ready to crash into bed when I saw this chubby orange cat walking towards me.

"Oh great, I guess this bad night isn't over yet," I thought to myself, preparing for further feline attacks.

Tigger then purred and rubbed his head on my legs.

I was completely taken by surprise. This was the first time he did anything like it.

He then rolled on his back and exposed that tantalizing belly.

"Ah, I see. It's all a ruse. This cat's damn sneaky."

I knelt in front of him, closed my eyes, and rubbed his belly.

To my surprise, Tigger didn't scratch back. He enjoyed the belly rubs!

Emboldened, I tickled his thighs and he purred, giving me full permission. Even more courageous, I placed my hand on his nose and mouth. Tigger sniffed my thumb then licked it. I then rubbed my licked thumb on top of his head. He enjoyed it as we did a couple of thumb-licks-to-the-forehead.

I then spoke to him and asked if I could carry him. Pretty sure he had no idea what I asked, but I lifted him anyway. He did not resist and I almost dropped him as I had no idea how heavy he was. And as I carried him, I laid his back on my right arm as I placed my left hand on his belly.

Ever since then, that has been our greeting every time I got home.

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Tigger was losing his battle to kidney failure as he neared his 18th year. Friends and family told me that it was time for him to rest. I refused to do so. He was my Tigger. He was going to be okay.

Whenever I got home, Tigger would still walk towards me. But he walked extremely slow. Sometimes he would tip over and I would help him back up. He had difficulties lying on his back so I would help him as I tickled his very thin belly.

When he stopped eating for almost four days, I had to make the decision with the vet. I didn't want to hear what he had to say, but he said what I feared the most.

Inside the vet office, it felt colder than normal. I held on to Tigger as I always did. Except tighter than ever. I did not want to let go. This time, he was thinner and lighter. It's as if I was carrying a feather pillow. He wasn't purring anymore. He was in pain.

When it was time to say goodbye, I gave him to the nurse. She asked if I would like to give Tigger my final goodbye. I reached back out to my Tigger -- who thought I was going to carry him back to my shaking arms -- and kissed him goodbye. Frozen, I watched the nurse carry Tigger somewhere in the dark.

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It has been six days. I still think that Tigger is just hiding somewhere. I catch myself looking underneath the kitchen table and even calling out his name. Writing this down is hard, but I don't want to forget him. He loved me throughout his life and I was grateful that I was a part of his life.

I love you, Tigg.