No catnaps while Tigger rules

My old boy is gradually losing his mind. His name is Tigger and he’s been with my wife and I for about 14 years.

A ginger cat, he was found in a box pushed up under a car’s front tyre, on the opposite side of where the driver enters the car.

Fortunately for him, he was spotted by the person who brought him to us. He’s mainly been my cat, for what it is worth.

And as the years have rolled on, he grown slower, wider and more curmudgeonly. A lot like me.

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He also isn’t fond of unannounced strangers, he definitely doesn’t like the vet – who is an absolute angel – and you can hear him inside his travel basket a block away with a very presentable rendition of bagpipes, but more of a roar.

Otherwise, he’s generally calm – except when strangers arrive at home, then he bolts like a puppy after a milk bone.

Lockdown during Covid was pretty lonely, especially when you’re working 12 to 15 hours a day at your desk.

Tigger’s favourite spot was to lie on my feet and after wiggling my toes to scratch his head, he would purr really hard. It helped more than more than he’ll ever know.

Somewhere between 2020 and now, he’s aged very quickly.

His hips really bother him, he has only a few teeth – like me – and he spends most of his day sleeping in his cat kennel under the warmest spot in the house, our aquarium.

He’s close to food, water and his litter box, of which the latter is becoming a problem. Fortunately, Tigger’s kidneys are still working fine, but his aim when he poops … not so much.

Last year, we thought he had completely lost his mental faculties and every morning and night was spent cleaning up landmines.

It is so a function which he has no problem with, trust me. Lots of insanely expensive medication, alternative medicine and patient retraining later, he’s managed to remember where the litter box is.

Except he still doesn’t make it inside on some occasions, but we’ve also learned to generously spread newspaper around to catch the shells which go off target. And food.

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Him being a chonky boi with his hips, Tigger had to go on a diet. Which he did not approve of and, as cats do, made his displeasure known violently by making himself sick.

This wouldn’t – and doesn’t even after two years – happen straight after dinner.

Oh no. This would happen around two in the morning, usually in the doorway to the bedroom so when one of us jumped up to try and help him, we would get that lovely warm wet feeling between our toes.

And, because he’s a cat who, together with our other cat, completely and utterly owns us, we apologise as if it is our fault.

Here’s the part where the saying cats are assholes comes in.

After delivering his gift, Tigger then parks himself next to his food bowl, glaring at us because we’re now taking our time feeding him, because now he’s hungry and we should simply leave his present until he is sorted. I don’t care.

He’s always been my toe cat, we’ve spent more money on him than servicing our car, which is exactly how it should be.

How else is royalty pampered in their declining years? I’ll tell you. Every single day.

It’s the least he deserves and like most animal lovers, I’ll beggar myself to do it. Hopefully, the day when he crosses the rainbow bridge is still far off.

His green eyes are still clear, he still knows how to bully us for a midnight snack – sometimes he doesn’t even puke, just grunts at us incessantly until one of us drags ourselves out of bed.

His latest toy is a scratch pad which, being quite long, makes the most satisfying slaps on the floor when he sinks his claws into it, raises and then lets it hit the floor again.

Carry on my boy, you deserve all the fun in the world.

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