Tipper
When Tipper arrived, she wasn’t much bigger than a large cup of Dunkin’.
For nearly fifteen years, her routine was our routine. She walked up to six miles a day, which was very good for her people. She cuddled as close as possible during my writing time, often putting her face between my hands and the computer keyboard. (She had all the Royal Scandals spoilers.) Tipper knew far too many people words and how to spell them, and she worked that knowledge to her advantage.
The world was Tipper’s game. Person walking to the stairs? Freeze, wait until the last possible second, then zoom through the house to tag them as they put a foot on the bottom stair. Toys? Perfect for fake hiding behind a pillow. Snowflakes? Snow shoveling? Perfect opportunity to play chase-the-falling-snow or bite-the-shovel.
Tipper even knew real games. Survivor on television? The first notes of the Tribal Council music were the ideal time to ring a bell and tease her people with a desperate request to go outside (yes, all a game, and she did it Every. Time.)
This past weekend, my family said goodbye to our little nugget. Our hearts are broken, but we are fortunate she chose us to amuse her.
Her Favorite Spot
Walk Time
