Goodnight little kitty

My grandmother died in December of 2007 and, at that time, I volunteered to take her two animals - a dog named Ranger and cat named Tiger.
Now, Tiger, affectionately called Tiggy by everyone, was a white and orange cat that my grandmother had found years earlier outside her house. She was tiny, skinny, and probably a few days away from death when my grandmother took her in.
I remember when she first told me about her new pet. “JP, she is beautiful,” my grandmother insisted when my mother and I arrived to see the new addition to the family.
There, curled up on my grandmother’s bed, was the most pathetic looking animal on the face of the earth. She had a watery eye, looked sickly, and her hair was matted down, probably because she was running a fever or had some sort of other illness. Sufficit to say, I didn’t see the “gorgeous” cat my grandmother did.
However, when I laid on the bed next to Tiger, she immediately looked up at me, purred, and nestled her head against my arm. She was affectionate, right from the start.
That beautifully warm nature would never change.
She was a pacular cat. She didn’t want to play with anything. It didn’t matter what kind of “toy” you bought, she would simply sniff it and move on. She also didn’t have any kind of a killer instinct.. My grandmother loved to tell the story of how, one time, in her finished basement, a small mouse came out of one of the vents and walked along the edge of the room. Tiggy noticed the varment, approached it, and simply slapped at the mouse a few times before leaving it alone. The mouse, she determined, was good people.
She also didn’t “meow” like other normal cats. Hers was more of a cackle, even at a young age.
While many cats are indifferent to their name, Tiggy would answer any person who called to her. In fact, you could normally have conversations with her by just repeating her name. She also loved to have her belly rubbed. When you would come over, Tiggy would slowly walk up, look at you, flop down about a foot from where you were sitting, and showed her belly.
When my grandmother died and her life was uprooted, it took Tiggy a while to get used to her new surroundings. She was used to a large home with an upstairs and downstairs, and a lot of room to roam. Suddenly, he stomping grounds were by more than half, but she adapted. She still loved to be pet and would jump on my bed at night to go to sleep.
The year before my grandmother passed, Tiggy was diagnosed with a thyroid condition. The vet suggested that medication was an option, although she couldn’t take the one that would do the most good, or surgery, although, at her advanced age, it was unlikely she would survive.
Eventually, the thyroid made her skinny and weak and, tonight, on my couch, Tiggy passed away. It was peaceful, as peaceful as a death can be, and I am grateful she didn’t suffer and didn’t have to be traumatized by being taken to a vet to be put down.
This morning, when I woke up, Tiggy was there, skinny and ill, but still talking, even with a weaker “meow.” Now, at 11 p.m. she is gone. A part of my life is over.
I have often wondered whether I take the death of an animal too poignantly. But, in truth, the cat that died tonight on my couch next to me has been a part of my life for nearly two decades. She was one of the last connections I had to my grandmother and to a simpler life when death didn’t infiltrate so many aspects of my life.
I am glad my little cat is no longer weak and suffering, and as naïve as it might sound, there is a part of me that believes she is, right now, somewhere right now, running around, fat and happy, answering once again to my grandmother’s call. All I know is that death, whether it be of a person or a beloved animal, takes a little piece out of you. It removes a little bit of happiness and love you have. Tonight, I feel somewhat empty, and I wish my cat would be there tomorrow morning when I wake up.