Wednesday, April 26, 2017

They DO worm their way into your heart!

Twenty years ago, Alex and I had a cat nicknamed 'Pimp Daddy.' He was black and white and had a paralyzed tail.  Some incident happened while he was out rolling in the city and he got his tail paralyzed. About a year later, he ended up getting Feline Leukemia. I had him put down on a weekend where Alex was out with his cousins so I didn't have him witness the whole thing.  About a week later, a neighborhood kid named James came by with a little orange kitten.  See, Pimp Daddy rolled with James' cat named Miss Kitty and Miss Kitty had kittens.  He though I'd like a new Kitty.

About a year later, a stray cat from the neighborhood dropped off two kittens on my doorstep.  We kept one, gave one away.  Vicky was our girl. As you see, Tigger and Vicky were best buds.  They'd be together all the time, snuggled up with each other...they were inseparable.

Two years ago, Vicky was sent to the great beyond when she got oral cancer.  She was a good girl and Tigger was kind of bereft of his favorite pal. Sure, there's Tyler, but he ain't Vicky.

We've moved twice since then, and he's taken to inside living pretty well.  Over the last 4 years or so, his wanderings have become more and more limited.  He's not gone upstairs in about two years.  And over the last few months, he'd not even ventured into the bathroom.  His arthritis in his hips and legs had limited him to the living room and the front room.  He became incontinent, so we had puppy pads everywhere.  Conversations were started about when would be his last day.  What was the limit of his infirmities to the point where we put him down?

Night before last, he came out from his other favorite spot behind my recliner yowling as if he was in pain.  He stood before us and just started barfing.  From a look of his pet bed, this was not his first round today. We cleaned stuff up and I told Dave that if he did not look better by morning, that I'd make the appointment.  Morning came and every time he stood up, he'd yowl.  The pain had gotten to the point where he couldn't move.

So I had him put to sleep. RIP to my little bud, Tigger.  He's had a great run. In human lives, he was 92.  I carried him outside yesterday morning to sit on the grass and smell the smells one last time. We buried him out on the Berm near the old barn.

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