The Tigger Sonnet
Several years ago, I was watching my two cats and thinking about their very different personalities. Oreo was a dainty female; a born homemaker with clear ideas of how things should be done, and stern disapproval if they weren’t done that way. She always helped me with anything domestic, stood guard over anyone who was sick and faithfully put my daughter to bed every night, scolding her if she wasn’t in bed on time.
Tigger, her brother, was entirely different. He was pretty much oblivious to everything all the time and didn’t accept responsibility for anything, except helping Dave stretch out at night. He decided this was a guy thing and was always on hand to show him how it should be done. Afterward, Tigger would sprawl on the couch with a smug expression because of his stretchy superiority. But basically, he just loved to be cuddled and so we did. Constantly.
Their breeding was a mystery (although we’re pretty sure Tigger was part pillow). They were just two tabbies that we bought as kittens for $5 from an ad. But as I was watching them, Tig snoring with all four legs in the air. Oreo, supervising all of us and occasionally giving Tigger a disdainful look as if to say, “Have a little dignity–please!” I was suddenly put in mind of Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 that starts, “My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun,” where he goes on to enumerate his beloved’s flaws and her incomparable worth despite them. So, instead of doing whatever I was supposed to be doing, I wrote a parody of that sonnet instead.
Now seems the perfect time to share that poem. The problem with pets is that they don’t live long enough. Tigger and Oreo did well, thanks in part to their extremely “robust” gene pool. Oreo died a couple years ago at the age of 17, leaving a massive hole in our home. Tigger recently crossed the rainbow bridge at the age of 19. Although this poem is mostly about him, I find myself thinking about all the animals out there, especially the mutts and strays that have no dollar value and no skills except the ability to fill our lives with joy. This is for all pets and the owners who miss them.
My Tigger cat is something of an oaf.
If he were human, he would have a beer.
And with his buddies sprawl around and loaf
Then yell for me to get the dinner here!
His sister's feet alight with fairy tread,
Her gentle soul would never show a claw.
But Tigger, when he steps, has feet of lead.
His velvet fur conceals an iron paw.
Other cats, they purr and preen,
And Tigger is not wholly without charm.
Although his voice is more a raspy scream,
He snuggles up and clings onto my arm.
And that sweet love he freely gives to me,
Bests all those cats of noble pedigree.
Tigger, her brother, was entirely different. He was pretty much oblivious to everything all the time and didn’t accept responsibility for anything, except helping Dave stretch out at night. He decided this was a guy thing and was always on hand to show him how it should be done. Afterward, Tigger would sprawl on the couch with a smug expression because of his stretchy superiority. But basically, he just loved to be cuddled and so we did. Constantly.
Their breeding was a mystery (although we’re pretty sure Tigger was part pillow). They were just two tabbies that we bought as kittens for $5 from an ad. But as I was watching them, Tig snoring with all four legs in the air. Oreo, supervising all of us and occasionally giving Tigger a disdainful look as if to say, “Have a little dignity–please!” I was suddenly put in mind of Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 that starts, “My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun,” where he goes on to enumerate his beloved’s flaws and her incomparable worth despite them. So, instead of doing whatever I was supposed to be doing, I wrote a parody of that sonnet instead.
Now seems the perfect time to share that poem. The problem with pets is that they don’t live long enough. Tigger and Oreo did well, thanks in part to their extremely “robust” gene pool. Oreo died a couple years ago at the age of 17, leaving a massive hole in our home. Tigger recently crossed the rainbow bridge at the age of 19. Although this poem is mostly about him, I find myself thinking about all the animals out there, especially the mutts and strays that have no dollar value and no skills except the ability to fill our lives with joy. This is for all pets and the owners who miss them.
My Tigger cat is something of an oaf.
If he were human, he would have a beer.
And with his buddies sprawl around and loaf
Then yell for me to get the dinner here!
His sister's feet alight with fairy tread,
Her gentle soul would never show a claw.
But Tigger, when he steps, has feet of lead.
His velvet fur conceals an iron paw.
Other cats, they purr and preen,
And Tigger is not wholly without charm.
Although his voice is more a raspy scream,
He snuggles up and clings onto my arm.
And that sweet love he freely gives to me,
Bests all those cats of noble pedigree.
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