I loved Tiger the cat more than Skippy the dog when I was growing up.
Skippy was our first pet. A curly, black- and brown-haired Welsh terrier. If you know what an Airedale looks like, just shrink him down to about 40 pounds.
Skippy had an impressive heritage. One of his half-siblings belonged to President John F. Kennedy’s family. We must have gotten Skippy from the same breeder in Massachusetts.
Skippy put up a tough front to any human or animal passing our house. He barked like crazy. What a watchdog!
The prowlers didn’t realize that if they came into our house, Skippy would have greeted them with a wagging tail. He’d rather drop a wet kiss on them than bite them. Skippy was a pushover for any attention. That’s why I didn’t love him as much as Tiger.
Tiger was the feline equivalent of a mutt, with tabby stripes. A gift from a doctor getting rid of his cat’s latest litter.
Tiger was my role model. I had to earn his respect by feeding him, playing with him, and massaging that spot behind one of his ears.
When Tiger tired of my attention, he told me so with a swat of his paw. If I persisted in pestering him, he’d deploy his claws.
When I was a kid I wished my feelings could have commanded as much respect as Tiger’s.