The beer barrel polka

When my parents returned from their vacation in 1984, they had no idea what was waiting for them. These were the days before cell phones made us each a flip and a text away from each other; where Facebook and Foursquare let us know what our friends were doing the very second they were doing it. In 2011, there's no way a kid could sneak a pet into the house for four days without the parents knowing...even if the parent was in Peru. But, in August of 1984, my parents were obvious to the furball sleeping in the garage until they pulled in the driveway and opened the garage door. Oooh boy, they didn't stand a chance. I honestly don't even remember the conversation - I may have already been in bed - but Tigger got to stay and was the Best Dog Ever for 14 more years.

 Tigger and I...kickin' it circa 1985. Totally rad.

To this day, my dad complains about Tigger and what a naughty dog he was. One day I came home and there was a huge barrel in the middle of the kitchen. Looking in the barrel, there was Tigger asleep at the bottom of it. His whole life, he was always running away (which likely explains how we got him in the first place) with my dad begrudgingly running after him. My dad even tried to change Tigger's name to Bob to prevent the embarassment of walking up and down the streets of our neighborhood at 10pm yelling "Tigger!" On this particular occasion, he had run away and, once found, my dad decided to put him in a barrel as punishment. Not much of a punishment, as Tigger was at least 12 years old at the time and just slept off his time in the clink. Actually, he probably liked it in there, all cozy and den-like.

Early on with Nadine, my dad commented about what he would do during Nadie's visit if she was a Naughty Dog. No need for a barrel, he figured. She was so small, a bucket would do nicely! And now, on those very rare occasions when I mention some teeny, tiny, insignificant thing that Nadine has done that ever so slightly inconveniences me...my dad's only words are, "Time to get out the bucket!"

No matter what kind of front my dad puts on, or all of his complaints about Tigger, aka "that ND," when we finally had to say goodbye to him, there was no doubt that my dad loved him as much as the rest of us. I mentioned that my dad is stoic and emotionless; well, that is not quite true. He simply doesn't show those emotions as bluntly as the rest of us. Instead, he builds a cradle for your new dolly, or silently changes your car's oil after you've ignored it for an extra 2000 miles, or fixes your broken kitchen sink that has dripped for six months.

They day we put Tigger to sleep, my dad spent the afternoon hard at work in the garage. Tigger was buried in the backyard in a casket built by my dad.