Tigger

Tigger was the best pet a person could have in the world.  A bold statement but by the end of this story you will see why.  Tigger was a long haired, tan coloured, beautiful cat with a mane that would make lions jealous.
My father died at the age of sixty, in September 1981, while I was working down in the mine in Manitouwadge, a small town in Northern Ontario. A very heart breaking traumatic event that came suddenly and left my mother and family extremely heart broken. My parents were a close loving couple, not socializing much and had a tightly knit family.  My father’s heart disease came as a complete surprise.  A non-smoking, non-drinking, healthy, strong, Christian man who seemingly had no vices except his family.  I had to go back to Manitouwadge to work in the mine leaving my siblings: Terry 18, Randy 16, and Pasty 14, because there was no work in my trade, drywall taping, in Thunder Bay.
A question came up in a game at a Christmas party: who is your hero?  Without a doubt mine was my father. The Bobby Orr’s and Winston Churchill’s were no comparison.  My mother and I still talk about my father from time to time but the rest of my siblings do not (at least to me).  I think about my father quite a bit at work.  Every time someone compliments me on the super quality of my work I always blame my father.  He instilled my work ethic and I have always lived by it.
To try to ease the pain, my wife Sharon, who was my girlfriend at the time, gave my mother a kitten for Christmas named Lumikki, Tigger’s sister.  She was a beautiful small long white haired bundle of joy.  My family had never had any real pets.  I have had a few in the past but nothing bigger than a hamster.  My first pets were three small turtles all of which lasted only a few months.  I was very young then and now I laughing say they all committed suicide.  One jumped to his death from the kitchen table, one choked to death on a piece of food, a somewhat questionable suicide, and the last one drowned when he knocked over his little rock cave.
Many years later came a hamster that lasted about two years; a normal life expectancy for Hammy, the hamster.  Hammy also got into mischief.  A school friend Ralph thought of an ingenious way to make money.  He wanted to mate his male hamster with mine.  When they were put in the cage together, Hammy bite his male hamsters balls.  So went our great money making scheme to sell baby hamsters.
I also had gotten a small aquarium in which I put about a dozen clusters of frog eggs which I found at a nearby pond. They all hatched and grew nicely until the transition stage between tadpole and frog. Some managed to jump out and the water had gotten a little stinky so my sweet mother flushed them all down the toilet much to my horror.
Lumikki was hardly a replacement for a loving husband and father but she did ease the pain if only in the slightest way for my family. Where does Tigger fit into the picture? Tigger was the brother of Lumikki, a litter of only two.  Tigger was supposed to keep Sharon’s Grandma and Uncle Donald company. But he was too much for her grandma to keep up with this lively little kitten, so I inherited Tigger.  I was still working in Manitouwadge for about six month after receiving Tigger and only returned home on the weekend.  My mom, Sharon and her family looked after Tigger while I was away.
When I gave up my mining career and moved back to Thunder Bay, Tigger and I soon became best friends.  I purchased and moved to Sharon’s grandmother’s farm house in the country and Tigger certainly loved his new liberty. He now had freedom to roam around chasing birds and mice.  The old house was infested with mice running rampant, inside the walls.  In about a week or so the walls became silent and Tigger grew a little fatter.
Tigger throughout his life remained a kitten; he was always ready to play and never seemed to tire of it.  Chasing toys and batting ping pong balls for hours on end.  He could catch food, namely “Pounce”, and hold it, like a squirrel eating a nut, in his paws.  His acrobatic skills were next to none.  Staying at an optimum weight of around nine pounds, he could jump and climb almost anything. During the first spring we lived at our home, Tigger managed to scale up the barn wall and destroy every last barn swallow.  Six nests in all that housed babies and adults were no more.  I felt bad but that is a cat’s nature and an efficient kill he was.  The death toll inflicted by Tigger was staggering. Saddam Hussein would have been proud decorating him with honours.
In his relentless pursuit of all creatures big and small, I soon learned there were at least four or five different species of mice, proudly lining the steps for all to see.  After displaying the victims, some still alive with broken bones, various parts would be eaten.  One type of mouse would be eaten whole, another only the head and yet another everything but the guts.  Tigger knew which parts were tonic and which were not.
Besides mice, numerous other animals were killed; bats, snakes, a few fat moles, squirrels, chipmunks, numerous species of birds – including a narrow miss of a partridge that I witnessed, frogs, toads and insects – all fell victim to this little killer. Tigger also got into his share of fisticuffs with others, coming back with cuts, scratches and bite marks.
Tigger could leap amazing distances.  With the garage doors wide open, eight or nine feet wide and eight feet up he calmly sprang from one side to the other.  The big old birch tree in the backyard was also a challenge to be conquered.  The tree forked into three sections and way up some sixty or seventy feet he jumped from one branch to the other.  How far only a guess, maybe fifteen feet or son.  At times like those he seemed more monkey than cat.
Tigger loved to be one his own outside but also like my company.  If I was doing chores or walking around he would always follow, keeping me company.  I had to be careful splitting firewood for he trusted me and wandered around the wood piles.  I would turn around to see him sitting on a log about to be spilt.  I always had Tigger to cuddle up with laying on the couch.  Enough even to make my wife jealous sometimes.  I gave Tigger lots of leftovers and yes, I favoured and spoiled him.
Unlike other cats, Tigger liked car rides and would visit his and my friends from time to time.  He used to sit on the dash of the van watching the scenery wiz by. When Sharon & I got married; with all the commotion that goes with weddings, plus we had gotten a new kitten, Tigger ran away or was kidnapped for three weeks.  On a hunch to go to the pound and find a suitable replacement, Sharon found him on the last day on death row. He was spared and returned home.  He had sustained a broken back leg that had healed nicely one its own.  God was with us and him on that day.  He had been found nine miles away from home with his broken leg.
Tigger and Spike, the new kitten, got along well together.  Spike grew to weight double Tigger weight but Spike was no match for Tigger.  Tigger was a hardened warrior and would chase Spike biting and swiping at his back legs till Spike screamed in agony.  They were the best of pals helping each other in battles and hunting.  They would sleep together and clean each other whenever they were laying around.
To another person Tigger was just a cat.  But to me he was a dear friend and companion, whom I miss dearly.  Tigger went missing back in the fall of 1994, presumably eaten by some coyote that had killed a number of other cats.  Tigger was a tough cat, as tough as they come.  I know he did not go down without a good fight if that is what took his life.  That is one of the qualities I like about him.  
He lived a reasonable long life for a cat and I will always remember him.  I deeply wish I could have buried him as I buried my dog Boris. I didn’t show a lot of affection towards Boris in front of people but did when no one was around.  I have cried for my pets especially Tigger but as men do I like to do my suffering alone.  Tigger will always have a special place in my heart.  I truly miss him.  Today I buried my cat in a sense.  A marker resides now next to Boris in his memory.

By Rock’s Rose/ E.W.Rantala
(Written over 20 years ago)