Blair sent me this photo today, along with this note:
This is Tiger Cat. He’s 42. I got him when I was five. My mother made him for me when I was sick and I named him after my favourite football team. He’s never been to Hamilton. In fact, he’s never left Ottawa in his life — except for about a 20-year interval in a box at my parents’ cottage.
The dark stitches — and current disembowelment — are the result of a number of surgeries Tiger Cat underwent when I was around 12 and wanted to be Hawkeye Pierce. I’d cut a small hole and cram a toy plastic bullet in. Then I’d make up my bedroom like an operating theatre, put on my Dad’s lab coat and a surgical mask, and go to work. I don’t remember, but it looks like some of them might have been headshots.
Tiger Cat is stuffed with my mother’s old nylons. That never really struck me as creepy until today.
When I had kids of my own a few years ago, I got Tiger Cat out of the box and brought him back to Ottawa. I thought maybe they would like him for their own.
Today I saw him sticking out of another box in my own basement and brought him down to look at. I wondered, what kid would want that in their room?