We recently lost our beloved 12-year-old cat, Tiger. He was such a healthy, loving, and handsome boy. He got sick seemingly overnight and refused to eat; he looked like he suddenly lost more than half of his body weight.
He came to snuggle with me on the couch in our living room. I saw that his beautiful full face was sagging in, his bright eyes were dull, and I could feel his ribcage. That was not our chubby Tiger. He was purring and being extra affectionate, but I knew then that something was terribly wrong. He had been acting normally before, and we thought his weight loss was because of the new feeding schedule we implemented to prevent him from overeating.
I took him to an animal hospital the next morning because his regular vet was closed. After hours of waiting, we were told that he had a progressive type of stomach cancer that had spread to the surrounding lymph node. There was nothing to do but to ensure his remaining time with us was as comfortable as possible.
It was an earth-shattering moment.
We didn’t know when but were told to watch out for the signs. My daughter made it home from college that night since he was closest to her. We were all surrounding him, and we could tell he was happy. I cooked his favorite meal, baked salmon, and he ate some. We were excited. I even hoped that this was all a mistake, that he’d be fine after all, that the doctor was indeed wrong.
The next day was the same; he nibbled at small pieces of salmon, drank water, and hung out around us, but he didn’t want to cuddle. He just stayed in the corner, on one last watch.
I went to work on Monday. It was spring break, so my children and my husband were home. I kept checking on him throughout the day, and everything stayed the same. But I finally broke down. I tried hard to hold it together at home for him and the kids, but I couldn’t help it. The office manager saw me sobbing, and I told her that our cat was dying at home. She told me to go home and be with him.
An hour after I got home, my sweet baby passed in my arms. He drew his last breath with all of us around him.
Two weeks after his twelfth birthday. And just two days prior, he was cuddling with me, purring like a machine. Two days prior, he was fighting with his brother. Two days prior, he had hissed at the dog. We are thankful he didn’t suffer long. But it was too quick; we were just not ready. Can you ever be ready?
I’m having a tough time coping. I simply don’t accept it, and I’m still in denial. Sometimes, I still expect to see him outside my bedroom door in the morning, waiting for me to wake up. Sometimes, I see him sitting in his favorite spot. Sometimes, I call his name instead of his brother’s. Sometimes, I think, “Tiger would love this.” Sometimes, I tell my daughter to feed the cats, forgetting there’s only one now.
I miss him terribly. I miss his mischief and vindictiveness, his demanding and almost scolding mews when his meal is a few minutes late, his bad temper and impatience, his sweetness and soft side that only a few were privileged to experience, and his intelligence and affection.
I remember when he learned to use the doorknob, and we were done for. I remember when he rubbed his scent all over the dog’s toys to spite him and marked all his favorite spots by sitting in them before his little brother and knocked stuff over to get our attention.
I remember him when I saw all the scratched and bitten furniture. He did it to get back at us when we offended him somehow. But we loved him nonetheless. He was the boss, the first, the OG. We showered him with love, spoiled him, and allowed him things we didn’t let his brothers do. “He’s Tiger, come on,” was enough to make us look the other way.
