When I found out that I needed total knee replacement surgery, no one told me that the most important tool for recovery was to have a very spoiled and vocal cat.

Luckily, I had two cats — both spoiled, one vocal. Oreo was a dainty little female and she was a terrific nurse. When I came home after the first knee was done, she hopped daintily on the couch and sniffed around. All cats are telepathic, and I could understand her perfectly.

“Oh no! This is very bad!” So she moved far away and curled up around my head. I couldn’t have asked for a kinder, better companion. She spent a lot of time with me over the next few weeks, and when I was really hurting, she’d nuzzle up to my face and say, “I know that hurts. Puuuurrrr. You’re the most wonderful human in the whole world. Purrrrr. Now, you just rest here while I take care of you and you’ll be up and about in no time at all. Puuuuurrrrrr.”

And then there was Tigger. It’s not fair that Tigger gets the credit for my recovery when Oreo did all the work. It just goes to show that things are just as unfair in the feline world as they are in the human one. Anyway, you have to understand that Tigger is the softest, cutest cat you’ve ever met. He’s so affectionate that his full name is “Tigger, The Love Sponge.”

We have a little ritual. Whenever I come home from work, or whenever the mood strikes him, he’ll go to a certain place in the living room and call me. That is my signal to drop what I’m doing, lie down on the floor, snuggle him and give him lavish compliments while my husband, Dave, rolls his eyes and says something about demeaning myself to the cat.

When I first came home, Tigger also sniffed around my knee, but his reaction was very different. “Hey! That thing looks soft and puffy. FUN!” And he jumped. I’m no athlete, but I defy any ninja to move faster than I did to grab him before he dropped his 18-pound self on that knee.

Deeply affronted, he scowled at me from the floor.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but …”

“Get down here and pet me right now, or else.”

“Sweetie, I really …”

“NOW!”

“Tig, come here and …”

“YEEEEEOOOOOOOWWWLLLL”

“Oh no. No no no!” I’d only rarely heard that ear splitting yowl, but once I heard it for FOURTEEN hours straight in a small car and I still haven’t recovered.

Photo supplied, Anneli Byrd

This time at least the yowling wasn’t totally constant. He took a few breaks to eat, sleep, barf and glare at me. Most of his comments can’t be reprinted here. Frequently, he’d heave himself up to land on my stomach like the bowling ball that he is, to scream in my face for a while before turning his back on me and condescending to be petted.

Nevertheless, I was slowly getting better. One day, while he was yelling for me to come down to his official petting place, I gave it a try. With awkward, slow maneuvering, I survived the descent to the floor. Oreo watched this performance with horrified disapproval, but Tig instantly flopped on his back and started to purr. Right away I turned to mush and began the ritual, “Awwwww, Tigger, did you miss me? I missed you! Uh huh. You’re the softest, handsomest cat, but very manly and dignified … kiss kiss, etc. I happily had my face buried in his stomach when Dave came in.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled. “You’re on the floor!”

“Hi. Just look at his tuuuummmmmy and his paws! Kiss, kiss, pet, pet”

“I’ve seen them. Are you going to be able to get back up?”

“No.”

That was the end of my days lounging on the sofa. After that, every day, many times a day, he would demand that I get down on the floor to do my duty. No drill sergeant could have been tougher. Not even my physical therapist was so merciless. And so all day, every day, I got all the way down to the floor and all the way back up again. This forced me to move in ways that, believe me, I would never have dreamed of otherwise.

But it worked. At the cost of some hearing loss, I’m as good as new. I’ve noticed that I can move much more naturally than many others who have had knee replacements. I still spend a lot of those movements on the floor and Dave still accuses me of worshipping the cat. This is silly, but there’s no doubt that Tigger thinks of himself as some sort of god. And that being the case, I guess it’s only appropriate that Tigger was the one who granted me the ability to kneel before him.

Thanks to Rob, from Time to Pet, for the accompanying picture. Sorry he gave you a hard time!

Anneli Byrd is an academic adviser in Weber State University’s Student Success Center.

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