Tigger has now been gone three months. It still hurts. A lot!
I took him off some kids who had found him in the local allotments. He was around 5 weeks and as wild as they come. I went back for his mum or any siblings, but they were gone. I spent hours and hours combing out the parasites that were slowly draining his little body. He hissed and spat at me 'cos he was so scared and alone. His tail was then the same length as my little finger.
That was 13 years back now. He turned out to be as soft as tripe. At night, he curled up on my pillow. Every morning there would be a huge tail flapping between my eyes as Tigger did his Davy Crocket hat impression again. We also giggled about how every morning, regular as clockwork, he would plod through the patio, across the grass, to a far corner of the garden for his 'constitutional'. All that was missing was a little copy of The Sun folded underneath his arm.
I seem to have said goodbye to fluffy ones far too many times. You'd think it would get easier....
Goodbye, Tigs.
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