Hi there, my name is Tigger.
Well, officially it's Tigger. I also go by His Imperial Majesty, Baby Cakes, Handsome Floofer, Beloved, Boobaloo, Meowsir, Sweet Potato Pumpkin Pie, Love Bug, My Preciouussssssss, Chirpster, Fluffy Pants, Mafia Mob Boss, Babe, and Mr. Tigs. I'm half-positive Mom calls me whatever random nickname or descriptor that pops into her head at the moment, but I don't mind. Mom also calls me her Heart of Hearts, her One True Love, and the Light of her Life, but those are more my job titles than nicknames.
I'm a ragdoll kitty.
I’m super handsome with ice-blue eyes, white mitted pawsies that match my fantastic white mane, and striking blue lynx markings across my luscious, soft fur. And I have a sweet personality and emotional intelligence to match. I have the magical ability to make everyone fall in love with me, even people who don’t like cats. No one has ever met me and not liked me. What can I say? I’m precious.
I'm also not your average cat. I don’t while away my days just sleeping, eating, flopping, and batting around toys. No sirree! I have a Very Important Job.
I've spent the past decade working my fur off as a medical assistance cat to my mom. I am trained to do specific tasks to help her with seizures, fainting spells, narcolepsy, cataplexy, and PTSD (yep, my mom's a rescue with a LOT of issues). Her medical needs keep me on duty 24/7, so I've lived (and slept) my entire life by her side. She’s worth it, though. I love her so much.
Wow, you're thinking, I'm amazing! (I know). How did my mom luck into meeting me? Thanks for asking, I’d love to tell you.
When I was a young stud of around 3 years old, I lived with a different family in San Antonio, Texas. One day, strangers showed up, threw everything in our house into boxes, and took it all away. Then my family shooed me outside, got in their car, and drove off. I never saw them again.
I lived on the street for a while (that’s how I got my badass rugged, handsome nose scar). One day, I smelled something delicious. I followed my nose and found a can of food inside this weird mesh box. Whatever, when you’re on the street you don’t turn your whiskers up at free food, right? Just as I ducked inside to eat, BAM! The entrance closed.
Eventually, some lady turned up and put the box (with me still inside) in her SUV. I spent the night in this building with rooms full of cats. The next day, she brought me to a different house where I met my mom. Before she left, she injected something under my skin "to ID me if I got lost". I was freaked out, to say the least. I didn’t trust the strange smells, the strange pain, or the strange people.
That night, I tore through the window screen and escaped! I hid deep inside a storm drain. Five feet underground, it was cool, dark, and quiet. I was hungry, but at least I was safe. Time passed.
Several days later, my privacy was interrupted when I looked up to see a flashlight bam and eyes peeping into the darkness. I froze. Suddenly this woman crawled through the opening and dropped into the drain. Before I could move, she wrapped me in her arms and hauled me out (kicking and biting and scratching like the ferocious badass street cat I was), then carried me the few blocks back to her home. Honestly, her refusal to drop me (despite her bleeding arms) was impressive. Once inside, she presented me with scrumptious offerings of gravy-drenched food. I was starved, so I gobbled as much as my tummy could hold before disappearing under her couch. After she went to bed, I checked the window to try to escape again, but it was closed (that night and every night after).
For the next month I lived under the couch. I only came out to look for food at night after the house went dark and quiet. The woman waited. She didn't drag me out. She didn't get in my space. She didn't force pets on me. She respected my space. She let me come to her in my own time. She tempted me with delicious morsels and sweet treats. She was calm, soft-spoken, and gentle. She was safe.
Over time, fear thawed into apprehension, apprehension transformed into trust, and trust blossomed into love. And that's how she became my mom.
About a year later, mom brought home this teeny tiny floof who was all eyes, ears, and tail. “This is Roo,” she said. “He’s just a baby. He lost his mom. Can you teach him how to cat?” So I did. I was the brother who stepped up. I taught him how to sunbathe, how to climb furniture, how to chase bugs. I taught him where to pee, when to grab ankles, and how to trick extra snacks out of mom. I even taught him how to chirp at mom when he wanted attention, love, and cuddles. In return, he adored me (as is only right).
Mom said she named him Roo after the baby kangaroo in Hundred Acre Woods because she wanted us to become best friends like Tigger and Roo are. And we did.
I’ll never forget the first time strangers came to mom’s home and started boxing things up. I was terrified. I thought I would be abandoned again. I didn’t want to lose my family. I hid under the couch until the strangers lifted it up and took it. Mom swept me into her arms, then put me and Roo in the bathroom with our things. I hid behind the toilet, quivering. But when mom moved out the next day, Roo and I were in our carriers, in the back of her car. And that’s when I knew her love was forever.
We’ve moved together many times over the past decade. No matter what life has thrown at us, we’ve met it together, side by side, ears forward and whiskers out.
I remember the days when mom left every morning “to work” and came home in the evening - I would wait for her at the door and greet her by chirping and rubbing against her legs. I remember the day something changed, and she stopped leaving each day. Instead, every morning when she “went to work” I would follow her into the spare room and lay on her desk until dinner. (I was quite pleased with that change).
I also remember the day she woke up and couldn’t move half her body. Her head smelled wrong. I was so worried, I kept sniffing her head and yowling at the human who lived with her until they helped her. They took her somewhere for a few days. She eventually came home, but her body still didn't work right. She never “went to work” again.
I remember a couple years later when my ears swelled up one day and flopped over. They hurt so badly. I was in so much pain. Mom called the vet, then started calling places that offered “emergency medical grants for pets of people with disabilities” and submitting applications. I guess it worked, because she got me into emergency surgery and I got better.
There was this one stretch of time after mom became disabled where we lived with this bad man who yelled and threw things and made her cry. He would hurt her. He scared us. Then one day, he hurt me. I cried. I couldn’t move my back legs. After he left, she grabbed me, put me in my carrier, and we snuck out together.
She took me straight to an emergency vet, who said I had a dislocated hip and a spine injury. I had lost the ability to walk. The vet said mom needed to make a decision. Mom didn't hesitate. The vet did something with my back leg that made a "clunk" sound and made my pain drop, gave me fluids, and showed mom how to help me potty. I had to stay with the vet a few days while mom was at the people hospital. When she picked me up, we left with a bottle of nasty stuff she forced down my throat every mealtime. And for the next several months, multiple times every day, she tricked or tempted me into doing these weird movements she called “PT”. I hated it and hissed at her, but by the end of the year I was walking again. It was a miracle!
Then came the day I got my diabetes diagnosis. The diabetes medication and dietary needs the vet prescribed were really expensive. Mom began crying. She told the vet she was scared she couldn't afford to keep me on her disability income. The vet said she didn't need to decide right then. So we went home, and she spent several days doing something she called “research” and “budgeting”. Then we went back into the vet with a treatment plan. Honestly, I was never worried about her leaving me. I knew she’d find a way. Her love is forever.
How could I not love her back just as much? That’s why I work so hard doing the medical tasks she taught me, to help with her disabilities. I know how much she needs me. She tells me all the time she doesn’t know how she’d live without me. (Trust, the feeling is mutual).
But that’s why I’m scared to leave her.
Why would I have to leave her, you ask?
Well, in January this year a lump was found in my neck. The vet did a biopsy and sent me to a specialist, and in February I was diagnosed with cancer by an oncologist. Its the really aggressive kind and there’s no treatment for this type yet. The vet called it Oral Squamous Cell Carcinoma.
On February 12, 2026, the oncologist said I had six to eight weeks left at most, and started me on something called palliative care. Basically, that’s just a fancy term that means mom is shooting droppers full of nasty slime into my mouth several times a day. Yuck! She tells me its to help with pain and inflammation, that it’ll make me feel better. She also tells me its tuna flavored. Yeah right! Like I tell at my mom, it’s only tuna-flavored if the tuna has been dead a week, rotting in the sun, and slobbered on by a dog! Each time she responds to my yowls of disgust by stroking me softly and telling me I’m brave and strong and she’s so proud of me for taking my nasty meds. How can any cat resist praise like that? So I reluctantly swallow them.
And that’s been life for the past eight months.
Oh, you caught that math error, did you?
That’s right, I’ve lived six months past my "deadline". What the oncologist failed to realize is how much I love my mom, and how much I DON’T want to leave her. Mom needs me. I keep her alive. I have a Very Important Job. So I’ve refused to go.
At my last medical appointment, the vet was shocked I’m still alive, still enjoying catnip, still following mom through the house, still batting at Roo, and still loudly demanding snackies.
Unfortunately around the end of July, this stupid cancer started kicking my furry little pantaloons. Or more accurately (since its in my neck), my floofy fabulous mane. It started growing much faster. Then it adhered to my tongue, making it hard to lick things or to swallow. Mom increased my pain meds and started making all my meals by hand, blending my food and supplements into liquid. She tempts me with the most succulent sips! She took over grooming for me when I stopped being able to lick myself (I’m a very fastidious, distinguished gentleman). And when the drool started, she implemented baths (I hate the process, but it feels so nice when I'm clean, fluffy and dry afterwards).
As I’ve gotten sicker, mom’s been made sure I am comfortable and not in pain. She's given me all my favorite things. She's even made me an end-of-life bucket list. We’ve had some special moments checking things off it.
Life is getting harder though, each day. Mom is doing her best to keep me comfortable, hydrated, and out of pain. I feel like the grim purr-reaper is watching me from behind a curtain, waiting to pounce (much like my younger brother Roo when he gets the 3am Crazies, or when he gets into the nip!)
Mom has become so sad the past couple weeks. I can feel the stress leaching out of her, though she’s been trying to control it with meditation. I’m napping a lot more now. Sometimes when I wake up and go look for her, I’ll find her curled up crying. Today she had a video therapy session (naturally I joined her). She told her therapist she feels so helpless because her disability income is too low to pay for my end-of-life needs, and the savings account she had for me has long since been emptied for my prior medical needs. I put my paw on her arm and started purring to let her know its ok, I can manage my end-of-life needs myself. When its time to go, I’ll just curl up in her dirty laundry and fade away, my nose and fur full of her scent - my favorite smell in the world.
Mom wants to do something called in home euthanasia though. She said its because with her disabilities, saying goodbye to me will cause a severe cataplexy episode, so it isn’t safe to do at the vet office.
She also wants my brother Roo with me when I cross the rainbow bridge, so he doesn’t spend the next year looking and calling for me every mealtime and every night at 3am. He needs to understand his big brother is gone, so he can grieve and heal.
Mom’s disability income is so low I know she struggles to afford her own meds and food each month. This month, with how sick I've gotten, my cancer has brought a lot of extra expense. To pay for my increasing medical and dietary needs this month, Mom has used the money that usually pays for her own medication and groceries. But despite her sacrifices, her meagre disability income is already used up. Her bank account is empty.
So I’m reaching out to our community. Can you step in and help her? Any money donated here will go to my end of life care (pain meds, IV fluids, etc), then when I'm ready to leave, my in-home euthanasia visit and aftercare for my body. I won't be there for her anymore. Can you?
I know she mentioned something about cremation and a piece of jewelry made of my ashes so we’re never actually separated. Humans are weird. I tried to tell her my spirit will keep watch over her after I go. But if holding something tangible brings her comfort, I support it.
Mom calls me "her heart cat". If I am my mom’s heart, she is my soul.
