Remembering Tiger and Motor
Although adopted two years apart and from different shelters, they were like brothers. They hung out together. They fought with each other. Overall, despite Tiger’s need to show who was in charge, it was obvious that they loved each other.
Motor, the younger feline, passed away from cancer suddenly at age 9 in 2016. Tiger soldiered on, although we could tell he was missing his sibling.
Last weekend, woefully, Tiger moved on to reunite with his brother across the Rainbow Bridge.
We took him in to the veterinarians to have some fluids drained from his abdomen (a function of cancer that he now had). We had done this before and, although not a cure, it had provided symptomatic relief, reducing the size of his distended belly, which allowed him to move more freely and be more comfortable. We knew we couldn’t beat the cancer but come hell or high water, we — and he — were not going to go down without a fight. We had reason to hope, for the last six months, each time we thought he was down, he came back.
That was not to be the case this time; his brave tired body could no longer take the strain.
Tiger was just shy of 15 and a force of nature. He was vocal. He was demanding. And he was in charge of the house. He was only nine pounds at the end of his long battle with cancer but you would never know that by the hole he left in our home and in our hearts.
We are now being forced, dragged kicking, screaming and crying into this new bleaker normal. We miss so much.
No one jumps up on the bed, waking us up too early, meowing loudly, gently placing one paw on my wife’s face, because he feels it’s time to eat, even though we don’t agree.
No one claws at the wicker basket in our bedroom all night long because he is bored and wants company, and because, well, it’s 3 a.m. and we humans apparently sleep at inconvenient times for him.
No one waits impatiently by the four automated feeders with their timers ticking away in the hallway all night, placed there to give him food every two hours because if he doesn’t eat 10 meals a day, he vomits.
No one is sitting on the living room carpet, his back toward us, ignoring us and pretending we aren’t there, even though whenever we get up, he would follow us like a ginger shadow.
No one greets us at the door, trying to “make a break for it,” when we get home from errands that took us away from the house.
No one is perched vulture-like at the end of his feeding table, meowing incessantly, anticipating impatiently his food, even though it has only been an hour since he was last fed.
No one is sitting on the “meditation chair” in the bedroom waiting to meditate with my wife.
No one is having to avoid having his butt being sniffed by our dog, Willie.
No one is being followed by his younger adoring brother, Oreo, or avoiding his other brother Hobbs, who now both seem totally lost.
No one is sleeping away sunny days on the bench in the “catio,” trying unsuccessfully to be away from Oreo, but secretly enjoying the adoration and the tooclose companionship.
No one is pacing back and forth along the very edge of the bed, almost falling off, reaching out to me whenever I get a bit closer, wanting me to pet him when I’m getting dressed.
The litter boxes are less full. Our grocery cart is more empty. The kitchen counter, formerly smothered with pill pockets, supplements, syringes, droppers, pill cutters, notes and medicines of all sorts, now is spotless.
You wouldn’t know by walking by our house but it is indeed shrouded in a gray cloud, hollow, barren, empty.
I know that learning to deal with loss is an essential skill as we age. I know the pain of his loss will pass; I’ve been through it before — and I know I will go through it again. I know we’ll feel better eventually. I know the other animals in the household will adjust. I know the empty spaces will be re-filled. I know the shadows will fade.
I know time heals all. I know this is natural. I know we “signed up for this” when we brought him home as a kitten. I know all this. I know grief is a sacred process and cannot be rushed.
I still hate it and I wish he would come home.
Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and founder of www. ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, where he can be contacted for coaching, consulting, and presentations. During this social distancing period, he is conducting monthly online workshops on setting goals and getting past what holds you back. Find out more at www. ThisTimeIMeanIt.com/ intentions.