A "Tipp' of the hat to a departed friend

There’s an old pecan tree that towers beside our kitchen window, the offspring of a seed planted by my great-grandparents many years ago. The scene of many a bird-perch and cat-climb, this now flourishing pecan tree brandishes a few crooked branches, evidence of its long-lived years. And last week, my aging cat, Tippy, chose the cool shade of this backyard resting spot for one final nap. Lying on her round, fuzzy side with back paws sprawled in her typical Tippy fashion, Tippy closed her eyes “farewell.”

Grief laid claim on each member of the Eaves family. Mama’s shock turned to panic, swiftly slipping to sobs. Mine was a similar tale, unrealistically asking God to “bring Tippy back.” Daddy’s was a quiet mourning, his steadfast silence interrupted only by the breaking of earth with his rusted shovel, tucking Tippy to sleep forever. 

Of all God’s grand gifts to his “human” children, pets are among the most precious. Their comforting companionship and unselfish, unconditional devotion are as much a reflection of Christ-like love than any we experience in our earthly lives.

There’s a bittersweet beginning and ending to our companionship with pets. Unlike our human counterparts, we observe our furry loved ones in their infancy, nestled among a tight row of siblings, their tiny, damp paws pressing persistently on their mother’s belly for milk. Likewise, we witness our pets’ inevitable aging and failing health, as was the case with Tippy’s arthritic hind legs and her once loud meows which had evolved into mere chirps.

Despite Tippy’s failing vocals, her deep purrs persisted — specifically at meal-time — as she dipped her hunger-driven head into an olive-green food bowl, sliding it across the kitchen floor in her impassioned eating frenzy. A hefty helping of morsels later, Tippy would likewise dunk her head into the neighboring water bowl, raising her head gulps later, modeling dew-like droplets that dangled from her whiskered chin.

As a teenager, I’d spend evenings playing with the solid white, frisky feline. Her spunk persisted, even after I departed for college. Returning home on school breaks, Tippy greeted me with a meowing melody. And as bedtime approached, she would perch on the foot of my bed, purring as she and I both drifted to sleep. Despite the numerous times I’d leave Epsom, Tippy appeared to await my return. Although years advanced and her perky pace slowed, Tippy would paw her way toward my entrance as if saying, “Welcome home.”

This past year, Tippy had difficulty climbing stairs — or jumping on beds for that matter. Most of our conversations occurred downstairs while I brushed her hair, rubbed her soft stomach, or fed her dinner. And in her final months, Tippy appeared more eager for the outdoors, opting for nature’s living space versus our house. Mama, Daddy and I often gazed from the kitchen window as she prowled across the yard, sprawling in the grass or on the back steps, absorbing the springtime heat, her eyes half-shut.

“I’m going to walk out to Tippy’s grave,” I said to Mama a few days ago, inviting her to join me for an afternoon stroll to Tippy’s final resting spot. Already having paid her respects that day, Mama declined, and with teary eyes said, “She was a good little friend.”

Like many outdoor afternoons Tippy and I shared, I was transfixed by its beauty. The crickets, beginning their nightly serenade, were accompanied by the birds, chirping their final notes of the day. The duet continued as my stroll ended by a grove of flowering spirea — and a newly unearthed patch, marked by cinder blocks. A few winged insects buzzed among the white blooms, and the nearby woods echoed with activity.

The Bible says that we will all return to the earth. Despite our rank in the circle of life, we share the same creation, and ultimately the same conclusion to this life. And as teardrops fell with the uttered words, “I miss you, Tippy” I felt the spirit of paw prints and whiskers dancing among the drifting breeze.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.