Tigger

by Susanne Haywood

  The guests arrived in dribs and drabs to begin with, and I welcomed them in the hall. Tammy took one look at the first arrivals and disappeared upstairs. I stood my ground for a while, but when more and more guests came in, and the ones I had welcomed earlier wouldn’t move on from the hall, I began to feel uncomfortable. There were human legs everywhere, and the dogs were waving their tails in my face. The noise level rose and rose until my ears hurt. Eventually, I decided to leave them all to it and joined Tammy upstairs.

  Even there, we did not remain completely undisturbed, as our guests wanted to see the house and were brought through by either Mum, Dad or the man who had wielded the paint brushes when we first moved in. Everyone ooohed and aaahed, but thankfully nobody thought of looking underneath the big bed, where we were hiding.

  The laughter and yelling continued for ages, and by and by I needed to go for a pee. I crept downstairs to see whether people had perhaps settled down in the living room, leaving my path to the back door through the kitchen clear. The hall was empty enough, but once I entered the kitchen, I was faced with hundreds of legs and terrifying noise. There was food out on the table and all the guests were helping themselves. Mostly, they were moving in an orderly queue around the table, but there were those who went against the flow, and some were just standing around, chatting. My escape route was blocked in all directions.

  I looked around for Mum or Dad, who might have carried me through the fray to the back door, but they were nowhere to be seen. I would have to make my own way through. At least nobody had seen me yet, so I had surprise on my side.

  My best option was to run under the table, where there were no human legs, and then to plan my further escape from there. I dashed in between a few legs and made it to the safety of the space under the table. The buzz of human voices was now all around me. Plates were sliding across the table overhead and cutlery was clunking. A piece of ham plopped down right in front of me. What a bit of luck! Before the big, black shoe next to it had a chance to squash it, I dashed forward, retrieved it and settled down to my tasty snack. Under the table turned out to be a great spot. Shame I had to leave, but there really was no time to lose; I was getting quite desperate for a pee.

  Peering out through the forest of legs and feet, some of them high-heeled and razor sharp, I could see that further progress would be tricky. I ventured out several times, only to be forced back by a maverick pair of feet crossing my path, missing my paws by a whisker. It was no good: I would have to proceed in stages. A lady was sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs nearby. Maybe I could make a dash under her chair and on from there? It was worth a try. I ran over to her, dodging feet all the way and had almost reached her when she uncrossed her legs and planted them both squarely on the floor, blocking my access to the space under her chair. Too bad; there was no way I could stop. My momentum carried me right up her legs and on to the plate on her lap. I was in too much of a hurry to check what was on the plate. Besides, the lady let out an ear-piercing shriek and jumped up. Plate and cutlery crashed to the floor, while I catapulted myself off her lap in the direction of the back door. It may be that I sunk my claws into her legs for better grip, or else she was just a shrieking kind of person, but she really made a lot of noise as I tore through the air. Fortunately for me, the sound of breaking china had caused people to step aside, leaving the way clear for my escape.

  I flew through the laundry room, where Mum was loading cakes on to plates lined up on the worktop. Her hand stopped in mid-air as she heard the noise from next door and watched me dive through the cat flap. The worried frown on her face was the last thing I saw before the cat door closed behind me with a reassuring click. The racket from inside subsided to a distant hum and gentle darkness enveloped me. I trotted over to my favourite bush, dug a hasty hole and abandoned myself to the sheer bliss of emptying my bladder. It had all been worth it for this!

  Afterwards I stayed in the garden. It was a bit cold and damp, but definitely preferable to a return through all those legs. Plus there was no knowing what state the lady was in, and that again would determine the welcome I could expect from Mum and Dad. Mishka’s new dog kennel stood abandoned while she was indoors, ingratiating herself to our guests. I went in there and discovered that its cushioned lining was actually quite comfortable, if you discounted the undeniable dog pong. I settled down and snoozed until I heard people drive off. The party must have ended; it was safe to go back inside.

  Mum and Dad were washing the dishes while Mishka licked the floor clean. I announced loudly that I was back and that I didn’t like those kinds of parties. Dad just shook his head sadly – I suspected he hadn’t enjoyed the party either – while Mum gave me one of her hard stares and some words of admonishment I didn’t quite catch. I told them it was time to go to bed and retired upstairs to wait for them. It had been a nerve-racking evening and I was very tired.

  6

  THE SKY EXPLODES AND IT’S A SCARY NIGHT FOR MISHKA

  Thank goodness I’m not given over to recklessness; I guess I owe that to my brother and his unfortunate accident. It would have been easy to become complacent once we had settled down to our new life: I had not enjoyed myself as much since we left America. There was so much freedom here and diversion from dawn to dusk. Nearly everything was perfect, from the abundant rodents around the house to the excitements of the forest nearby, and I was even able to enjoy it all without having to worry about the dogs, who were beginning to learn better manners from other dogs in the neighbourhood, snakes, of which there weren’t any, or horses, whom we had left behind.

  And yet I remained on my guard from long habit – and wisely so. Because once the warm, sunny weather had given way to frosty nights and shorter days, I became aware of strange goings-on in the neighbourhood. There was smoke in the air of an evening and the sound of many children laughing and shouting. It reminded me of our bonfire parties in Australia, and I was intrigued. Mishka was lying nearby, fast asleep in her favoured spot by the garden gate, oblivious of her surroundings. Why did that not surprise me? I would have to check things out by myself, as usual.

  From the top of the garden fence I could make out a fire in the distance, sparks flying high up into the air. It was fun to watch from over here, but I didn’t fancy being any closer. The flames were licking the air in long tongues of bright red and yellow; I could hear them crackling.

  All of a sudden, I really missed our children. When would they finally come and join us, so we could have bonfires in our garden again, instead of me having to watch someone else’s all by myself? We could cook sausages on sticks again, sing songs, get all sooty and smell of smoke for days after…

  A loud bang scattered my melancholy reflections, followed by a bright fireball which zoomed through the sky to a high-pitched whistle before shattering noisily into a thousand multicoloured pieces that came tumbling down towards me. My legs were on their way to the back door before my brain had even had a chance to register what had happened. I crashed through the cat door and came to a halt in the dark kitchen, its walls lit up eerily by the multicoloured sparks still falling, falling outside. I looked for Mum or Dad, but the house was silent: they must have gone out. We were on our own with the nameless threat out there. I used all my will power to fight down a rising sense of panic and sat down under the kitchen table to think things through.

  Mishka had also seen the lights now and began to howl to be let in. When nobody opened the door, she stuck her head through the cat door and howled into the house; it sounded scary. I told her I couldn’t help her and suggested she should take shelter somewhere safe. A second, even louder bang must have convinced her of the wisdom of my advice. She retracted her head and ran off, howling and whining, in search of a hiding place. I myself retreated under Mum and Dad’s big bed, where Tammy was already waiting for me. On my way upstairs, I caught a glimpse of Max, peacefully asleep in the sitting room and unaware of the emergency outside. He must be going deaf in his old age.

  It was a
long time before we heard Mum and Dad return. Carefully, we crept out from under the bed to meet them. All was quiet outside; the banging and bright lights had gone. Max went to the door to welcome Mum. I heard Dad call for Mishka in the garden, but there was no reply from her. It had started to rain. Damp, misty clouds hung low over the garden; a cold and miserable night to be outside. I felt a brief stab of sympathy for Mishka, but it was over by the time I had helped myself to a snack from my bowl. She would just have to look after herself.

  Mum and Dad clearly didn’t think so. They went out into the rain and mist to look for her and called for her many times. Only when they were thoroughly wet and cold did they give up. We all went to bed in a subdued mood, wondering what had happened to Mishka, and what our lives would be like without her. I reckoned Max’s would be great.

  It was not to be, though. When Mum gave Max his breakfast the next morning, we all heard a familiar howl. The sound of Max happily munching away by the back door had at last persuaded Mishka to give her hiding place away. The howl echoed wraithlike through the mist, impossible to locate even for me. Mum put on her wellies and took a large umbrella, then the two of us went outside on our quest to find Mishka. We stood in the wet grass and called her. When she replied, we tried to guess which direction the sound was coming from and followed her voice. It eventually led us behind the garden shed, where a jumble of undergrowth and rubbish discarded by previous inhabitants blocked our path and view. Mishka’s howls seemed to be coming from right in there. Mum hitched up her dressing gown, abandoned the umbrella and climbed into the mess. I admired her for it, but decided someone had better stay with the umbrella. When she had almost disappeared in the jungley depths, I heard her call out in triumph: she had found Mishka. I heard her pull aside some bits of rotting wood and battle a bramble or two, then Mishka emerged from where she had been hiding, in between a rotten fence and the neighbour’s garden shed. She was filthy and smelly, but otherwise fine and clearly looking forward to her breakfast. Mum and Dad set about the tricky business of cleaning her up with the help of the garden hose and several old towels, until she was fit to join us in the house. She was surprisingly keen to get inside. The garden seemed to have lost its shine for her, and she became an indoor dog again forthwith. Mum moved Max’s bed into the library, where he was able to sleep in peace with the door firmly shut to keep Mishka out.

  And the new kennel? You guessed it: it’s mine and Tammy’s now, for when we feel like spending time outdoors in bad weather.

  7

  I DEFEND MY TERRITORY

  Due to all the excitement outdoors, it was a while before I had time to give our new garage my full attention. I had been looking forward to exploring it, remembering all the fun I had had in the big shed and in the stable in Australia. What was this new garage, which stood opposite our house across a wide courtyard, hiding behind its three big doors?

  The doors opened automatically just like the ones in America. I secretly hoped for another time-consuming incident involving one of the cars and bits of wood flying in all directions. Dad and I had had such a great time putting that door together again. But for the time being, both Mum and Dad were careful to follow the correct procedure of opening the doors before reversing out.

  My favoured scenario being unavailable, I had to content myself with looking around the garage when the door was left open one day. The space in there seemed disappointingly small to begin with: just enough for two cars and rows of shelves along the back wall, jammed full with all kinds of things that weren’t needed in the house. Somewhere up high, I spied my travel container. It was unsettling to see they had kept it. Surely there was no need for that?

  There was also an old wardrobe, its doors firmly shut, and a bookcase I recognized from Caroline’s room. Instead of her neat rows of books and nick-knacks, its shelves now displayed rusty hinges, a cardboard box full of little bits of wood, an assortment of tools and plenty of dust. Cobwebs were appearing in its corners, a sign that spiders were universally busy creatures. I looked further up into the rafters and saw plenty there, too, although they could hardly compete with the Australian ones when it came to size and density. After all, the spiders themselves were tiny here and seemed quite harmless as well. I smelled no rats or mice, which was disappointing. However, since the outdoors provided them in such abundance, I decided not to upset myself unnecessarily at this shortcoming.

  There was a smaller room separated from the garage by a sliding door that stood half open. It was pitch-dark in there; my eyes took a few seconds to switch to night vision. The room looked as though it might one day become Dad’s wood workshop – his workbench and drills were all here – but for now it was a messy place where they had deposited everything they didn’t know what to do with. I saw a number of unopened boxes as well as furniture still wrapped in brown paper and tape. I weaved in between them to get a sense of the size of the room. It would be all right for Dad once it was sorted out, though not a patch on his old room, which had easily been twice this size, with two windows. But it would be nicely out of the way for when he started making a lot of noise with his tools: watching Dad work anywhere except at his desk was generally a startling experience involving sudden bangs, ear-splitting screeches and deep roars that vibrated all through my body, therefore a room of any size well removed from the rest of the house was good news.

  I emerged blinking from the little side room into the lesser gloom of the main garage and caught a small movement out of the corner of my eye at the top of the old wardrobe. It was just the hint of a movement, and it stopped as soon as I looked, but I knew it had been there. I went on strolling and sniffing around the garage for a while in order to lull whatever was hiding up there back into a sense of security before pretending to leave by the open garage door. Only I took a right turn instead and jumped up on to the roof of Dad’s car, which stood in front of the wardrobe. My claws were well retracted – not just because Dad gets terribly upset when I scratch his car, but also to avoid noise. My scheme worked: there was no movement on top of the wardrobe to suggest I had been detected. But there was a black shape up there, and once I stood perfectly still I could also hear level breathing and at the same time caught the unmistakeable whiff of tomcat. Seriously bad news.

  I had no way of knowing how big he was, since I could only glimpse the top of his back and a bit of one ear, but, my own size now being much trimmed down from my former, chubbier shape, I would have to be careful and rely on my agility and cunning rather than on brute force, just in case he turned out to be a heavy-weight. My big advantage was that he didn’t know I was still here. But the fact that he had dozed off so soon after having seen me bothered me: it must mean that he was either quite old or a very seasoned fighter who did not fear competition.

  All things considered, I simply didn’t have enough information on my opponent to risk a frontal attack, particularly in the precarious and limited space on top of the wardrobe. There was nothing for it but to lie in wait for him somewhere on the garage floor. I found a hiding place behind an old roll of carpet and some buckets. A piece of the carpet was trailing on the floor, providing warmth and comfort. I reckoned I could be comfortable there for a while.

  This turned out to be fortunate indeed, as my opponent was not in a hurry. I sat patiently on my piece of carpet while the weak winter sun crept slowly along behind the tall forest trees, now bare of leaves, before dipping listlessly down behind the hill, leaving our garden in gloom. It was very boring, but I was warm and the carpet was soft, and from time to time I dozed off a little – but never for long.

  The tomcat didn’t move until it was almost dark and my tummy was beginning to rumble. We probably had similar mealtimes and he wanted to be on his way home. He stretched, yawned and then climbed a little stiffly down from his perch. I was relieved to see he was no youngster; probably my age or older. I waited until he was down and on his way towards the open door before pouncing on him. I landed a swift right hook on his face before he even k
new what was happening. He shook his head and rose up on his hind legs, as did I. I reckoned we were about the same height, although he was heavier and quite hairy in a messy kind of way. I dodged his paw when it came my way, caught him again on the nose and at the same time threw my weight at him and bit deep into his neck. He lost his balance and fell over, yowling loudly, and we rolled around the garage floor for a while. He bit and spat, trying to gain the upper paw, and gave as good as he got. At one point his claw caught my ear and I felt it tear, but was far too cross to feel any pain. Once we had ascertained that this was an even fight, we separated and circled, hissing abuse at each other. He told me he’d slept on this old wardrobe for as far back as he could remember. I told him it was now my wardrobe and our garage, so his presence was no longer wanted, and encouraged him to add that to the things he could remember. He grew furious at that and dealt me another blow, which I returned and saw to my satisfaction that I had drawn blood on his nose. A couple more punches and he was on his way. I chased him down the driveway and yelled after him never to come back.

  When I was sure he had gone, I went home to see if dinner was ready. My timing was excellent: Dad was just serving it up. He noticed the blood on my ear and asked what had happened. I told him it was nothing; humans don’t need to know about everything we do. He shrugged and went on to give the dogs their dinner, but when Mum came home he mentioned my ear to her. Of course she made a fuss, got out the camomile tea and the little cotton pads and grabbed me in a tight clinch. I held still for a little while and let her clean my wound, just to calm her down, before I wriggled out from under her restraining arm and ran back outside to check that my enemy was nowhere to be seen.