There was a point not too long ago when I spent a large part of my weekends at a movie theater. I was in charge of doing trailer checks where I’d gauge audience reactions and report back to a company on what I found. The perk is that you get to experience vicariously how people respond to art in real time. Even as you’re able to mouth every word and cue in every song, you get to look backward into the hundreds of faces and admire the rare sight of people in awe.
It also means that you’re stuck watching the same trailers often dozens of times and, if you’re unlucky, over the course of four or more months. I’m well aware of how well-oiled the Marvel marketing machine is because of it, though my experience with Captain Marvel (2019) was a unique one. The trailer does everything you’d expect. There’s nothing unpredictable or out of place. However, there’s a stinger following the title card and even amid laughter I had no choice but to look away. I wouldn’t see this scene proper until I paid for a ticket in March. It wasn’t a major spoiler nor was it necessarily a joke that drove me nuts.
In just that split second of eying the screen, I had a full-body reaction. Somehow the fantasy of aliens and superheroes faded away and all I could see was sadness. I don’t personally fault Marvel for my response, though I needed to look away to keep moving forward. It was a scene so mundane that everyone else was probably chuckling with their friends.
In the scene, Nick Fury bends over to pet Goose. While there would be a complicated lore that followed, in that moment Goose had taken the shape of an orange tabby. The simple act of Fury bending down to pet her is an act so innocuous and yet it conjured very personal memories of my own cat. As time keeps on ticking in the present, I realize that we’re quickly approaching five years since Tiger died. For months in 2018-2019, I was reminded of that and I initially rejected it. However, as I come out of The Marvels (2023) where Goose has an even more prominent role, I have come to realize the catharsis that the character represents.
To provide some context, Tiger was an orange tabby who adopted us in the same way a lot of cats have. I live in a neighborhood where we put out food and water every day for local animals. While this can be contentious and often draw unwanted crowds, there are those few who come around that you fall in love with. Not enough to adopt, but you find peace in knowing that they’re still around. You become concerned if you go three days without seeing them. Given that we had dogs at the time, cats were mostly a front yard phenomenon when Tiger randomly began to live in our driveway before slowly working his way into the house.
There’s too much story to really get into, but over the years Tiger became “my” cat. Never had I been so connected with a cat. He’d see me and wander over for attention. He was cool with allowing me to just pick him up and wander around the house. I’ve had many affectionate cats, but Tiger was one of the most willing to give in to your impulses. As a byproduct of not being neutered at a younger age, he was also the largest indoor cat I have ever known. This meant a lot of things, such as how he could lay outside on the sidewalk and not be bothered about the dog just trying to cross the sidewalk. I think personally, it was also the same comfort you get from a weighted blanket. All cats are wonderful, but those with bigger pets will know what I mean when saying there’s something comforting about a heavy one laying on you and having it feel very protective.
Tiger lived with us through three houses. In that time we had so many additional cats that came and went, though he never left. He endured in a way that’s easy to take for granted. He seemed invulnerable, and I think it was largely because of how much he loved those in my family. He felt welcomed everywhere. Even in his old age, I’d put out a step stool so he could jump into bed at night. He was so indebted to us that I could whisper in his ear “Tiger” and a sudden purr would start. I think it’s because I was so scared of losing him that the final five years were maybe a bit too overcompensating.
A few weeks shy of Christmas 2018, Tiger was put down. I won’t go into complete detail as it still hurts to think about it, but his health had been declining. He’d cry in the hallways at night. His eyesight wasn’t the best. When we assumed that he suffered a stroke and was losing his ability to walk, we decided to avoid a potential disaster that December of finding him under the tree and scheduled the final options.
Tiger was 18.
I think for me, his death hurt the most because it was the first significant loss I had in my 28 years of life. Even now, I recognize why his loss hurts compared to a lot of cats who’ve run their course. As much as it’s about his personality and what he meant to me, it was also the reality that I was losing a connection to my youth. Over 18 years, I went from middle school to my second run at community college. There was so much pivotal growth, arguably the most that I’ll experience in my lifetime. Tiger was there for it all and his presence provided a permanence that made me feel secure. Without him, I had to form connections over less personal things. Whatever they saw wasn’t as complete of a picture. Even my memory and whatever I could tell them could never be as complete as being there and remembering the fragments that I had forgotten.
Tiger’s death was hard to get over because of this. It was less because of regret and more something similar to a phantom limb. Much like how somebody who loses a hand still imagines their fingers flexing, it’s hard to not walk through a house and imagine that Tiger was there, just around the corner. Maybe it was the wind blowing through the floorboards. Maybe it was a shadow from a car driving outside. Everything brought him back to life, and there was the pain of going to sleep without him. There was the pain of letting your guard down and mistaking those senses for something real. I’d like to say it was days, but it probably was a year if not more until I could stop looking at odd corners and thinking he was there.
The timing was terrible. Captain Marvel was ramping up marketing and soon I saw that second trailer where Nick Fury pets Goose. As I tried to stop seeing Tiger everywhere, I had marketing giving me a cat that, while not identical, kept conjuring those memories. Is Goose cute? Of course. That cat deserves all the love she gets. However, when you’re in a grieving state, I think there’s a part of you that actively wants to reject the memory. When you’re in public, there’s concern about crying when everyone’s laughing. Because of that, the Captain Marvel trailer wasn’t exactly selling me. Maybe I could sit in the dark of a two-hour movie and finish my crying by the time the lights came back on, but not a trailer. I had a schedule to keep.
I think of what followed like the time I saw Marley & Me (2007). Earlier in 2007, I lost my dog and hadn’t really processed it. There was a point in the Owen Wilson movie that was notorious among audiences for making them cry where they (Me) put the dog (Marley) down. Even having read the book, I wasn’t prepared for the moment not only because it was sad in context, but because I finally processed “Oh, my dog is dead.” I finally had the safety and validation to express myself.
At no point will I suggest that I was closed off from Tiger in the same way. I was actively sad and made sure to let people know. However, there is a part of grieving that is necessary. At some point, once everything has been processed, you need to accept and move on. While it was easy to accept that Tiger was 18 and his death was plausible, it was hard to find a connection that kept him alive in my memory. I had fears that he would slide away, symbolizing my own disconnect from my past. So much could be lost if I forgot about Tiger.
Seeing The Marvels this past weekend, I was reminded of what Goose immediately came to symbolize to me. Where at first he was this painful reminder, he became what I had envisioned Tiger to be. No, I’m not saying he’s a Flerken who can consume furniture whole. However, he was always a “weird” cat. He was someone who actively felt at odds with the felines around him even as he was very likable. It was there in his size. It was his commanding presence as he gingerly demanded canned food at night. To use a toxic example, Goose is like the glow-up of real-life icons by skinnier, sexier actors without the problematic baggage. Tiger was an actively odd cat, and nobody felt as deserving to symbolize him in film as Goose.
I do believe that every cat has their own personality and there’s a good chance that we all have unique relationships with each. For me, there was something endearing about looking into Captain Marvel or The Marvels and imagining my superhero alternative wandering around the house as Tiger got into odd corners. While I was trying to save the world, he’d be getting on the counter, knocking the coffee pot on, or messing with the control panel. He would do mundane actions that would cause me to worry. You’d hate him for the headache he induced, but he’s ultimately too good-intentioned to ever be yelled at. How could you say no to that cute face?
From there, I do imagine that it’s difficult to really find parallels, but I think there’s something acceptable about imagining me and Tiger in a comic book fantasy. It’s fun to imagine him scratching furniture or hacking up hair being something more sensationalized, or even how his horrid, aged breath was hiding something more unruly just out of sight. Who knew what was inside Tiger keeping him alive. He survived 18 years. There was probably a bit of alien inside of him with the number of hurdles he overcame.
That’s why I teared up at a scene where Captain Marvel walked across a barren planet with Goose on her shoulder. There was something about living out that fantasy with Tiger even if he was never limber enough. He was so valuable to my life and sometimes felt like he was on my shoulder, or more figuratively in my mind. There would be nights where I’d get off work and the sound of my car screeching to a halt would cause him to run off the porch and stand by my car. We were partners ready to go on an adventure. He’d want to know how my day was. He made me feel welcomed even when I was stressed out.
I suppose it’s possible that my immediate reaction to every new piece of Goose media is to cry, though the motivation behind why has likely changed. Whereas she symbolized a part of my life that was gone at the start, she now is a character who connects me to my past and makes me imagine a world where Tiger is still here and agile. It’s logical to say he wasn’t anywhere close to athletic, but in a fantasy, you can be anything you want. He could eat couches. He could sit on my shoulder. Everything made sense.
With that said, I do come away really liking the rest of The Marvels. However, I realize what these films have come to mean beyond world-building. There are still characters who exist beyond their arc and simply reflect a part of life deserving of greater dreams. It has been five years and I still think about Tiger infrequently. He’s still there, appearing on Facebook Memories from the random pictures he let me take of him. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he was ever young, but with that comes my own memories of those days. Goose and Tiger may have nothing in common other than they’re orange tabbies, but to me, they’re part of a breed that endures for a reason. All cats are great, but few will mean as much to me as Tiger did while we were together.
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