I wrote a lot about Tig while he was dying (as well as tons while he was alive and healthy), but I couldn’t bring myself to write much about his last day. Not when it happened, not shortly afterward, not even after I got Tig3.0 and the pain pushed back to something that only comes out once in a long while, and causes a pang of grief and loss that only lasts until the new Tig makes me smile.
But I was looking for a recent picture to send to a friend that I hadn’t heard from in over twenty years, and I decided this one would do.
And then I read the post, and the comments, and remembered back to that day. When I woke up that Saturday morning, Tig was in my room, in a corner near some boxes. He hadn’t slept in my room in weeks, maybe months. Something had frightened him again—I assumed it was the bed monster, or the blanket monster, or whatever it was that stopped him from sleeping in the bed for months at a time. But the sicker he got, the less he came into my room. He’d taken to sleeping in a box in my office, which I made more comfortable for him by adding some towels. The box is the first place I checked every morning, always greatly relieved to see him awake and alive. So when I woke up that Saturday and saw Tig in my room, I knew immediately something was really wrong. He wasn’t crying or panting, but he was in my room, as if to say, “Something hurts. Make the pain go away.”
My friend Heidi speaks of a contract we have with our pets. That unwritten contract states that it is our duty to feed them, love them, take care of them, and make sure that they do not die in pain if we can help it. In return, we get the unconditional love that dogs and cats give their owners. The contract ultimately dictated my behavior that day.
I took him downstairs and tried to get him to eat. He couldn’t eat. The ulcers in his mouth probably hurt too much. But it was a beautiful day outside, and he could lie in the sun. So I let him out and thought about what to do. I called the vet and told them that it might be time, and asked how late I could bring him in. They told me 11:30. I had to decide whether to bring him in then, or hope against hope that he’d make it through the weekend. But I was worried that he was in pain, and he’d get worse, and I’d feel awful if I decided to wait until my vet was back in the office, instead of paying an emergency vet three or four times what it would cost to put him down. And above all, I did not want Tig to suffer. If I decided to wait another couple of days, and then saw that Tig was hurting, I would never forgive myself if I thought he was in pain because of my indecision or selfishness.
I called Sarah, and told her what was happening, and I can’t remember if I asked, or she offered, but she came over to go with me to the vet. She took the final picture of us, at my request. The picture was taken just minutes before we left. It’s the very last picture of Tig. And he was purring while Sarah took it. To the very last, Tig purred—not his loud, deep, throaty purr, but a purr nonetheless. We were outside in the back, sitting in the sun, until Sarah got there. And even in his weakened state, Tig had to be crated to go to the vet. He didn’t exactly go gently into that good night. But I kept my end of the contract. He went with a minimal amount of suffering, and he spent his final hours in the sun, with me by his side, petting him and listening for those faint purrs.
Losing this Tig was even more painful than losing my first Tig, for some reason. And it still hurts to think about the loss of my orange boy. But his successor is sitting calmly in the window with Gracie right now, having failed in his attempt to get her to play with him. And he makes me smile and laugh, every single day.
He shadows me constantly, just like his namesakes did. When I go upstairs, he goes upstairs. He supervised the cleaning of my closet this weekend (pictures to come). When I go to the bathroom, he follows me inside. When I take a shower, he sits on the side of the tub, or he does Tig things until the water goes off, then he comes inside the bathroom, knocks my razor off the side of the tub onto the floor, licks the water off the bottom of the tub or off my legs (ew), and generally gets in my way completely. And that’s pretty much what his namesake used to do. I never close the bathroom doors when I’m home alone. The cats will just stand outside and yowl until they’re opened, anyway.
And now, Tig3 is sitting next to me (he moves around a lot while I write), showing me that no, the medication hasn’t yet fully gotten rid of his flatulence problem, and when I reach down to pet him, he licks my hand. And then he bites me, because je suis un cat toy, as I’ve been saying since I got him.
I suppose that must be the circle of life that everyone talks about. One cat goes, another arrives. I miss the first Tig, and the second Tig. But I have Tig the Third, and Gracie, and we’re all doing quite well, thank you.
