In my early teens, my family and I visited our local Humane Society. We were looking for a dog, however my younger brother and I met two kittens that we just fell in love with.

My kitten, a big orange tiger cat, had the coolest, calmest eyes. Bold orange stripes criss-crossed his long lanky frame, and yellow-green eyes peered out from under half closed lids. Tigger became his name, since I was worried that if we named him Tiger, he would begin to pounce with real intent.

Tigger was always into something as a small kitten. He would frequently worm his way under our bathroom door, and join me in the shower. I’ll never forget the day he realized he was too big to fit under the door any longer.

I heard the most distressed howl issue from him, and jumped out of the shower to rescue my poor, very upset, kitty. From that day forward, if I went to shower, I had to find Tigger first and invite him in.

The times I could not find him, he would wait for me, by the door, usually sticking his long front legs under the door just to let me know he was there, and waiting for me.

Tigger grew to be a very large cat. Our vet thought he must have had some Maine Coon Cat in his bloodlines. As Tigger aged, he became more demanding, and continued to be filled with character and surprises.

His other “trick” was to encourage me to feed him- faster. Tigger was tall enough that he could stretch his front paws up onto the counter in the kitchen, and feel around for his food.

If I was too slow in opening the cans, he would try to swipe them from my hand. If all else failed, he resorted to loud yowling at me, and continually swatting my behind.

Tigger was a cherished member of the household for many years. I have met many other cats since him, but somehow, none seemed to have his unique quality for mischief. It has been almost 20 years since Tigger passed away, and I still miss him.