Tigger

by Susanne Haywood

  I waited, well camouflaged by the autumn foliage, to find out what the bird’s final verdict on Mum’s efforts would be, and used the opportunity to observe him from a safe distance. I had little experience with large birds beyond the cockatoos of Australia, whose beaks were so sharp I was never tempted to take one on. This one had a much smaller beak, though it looked sharp enough, and fairly big claws. But the really startling thing about him was his truly magnificent plumage: the feathers on his body gleamed in many shades of gold and ended in a long, slim tail which he carried at an arrogant angle. His neck shimmered in dark blues and greens, quite at odds with the general colour scheme, while his face was a splash of bright red. I’d never seen any creature quite so strange, yet so beautiful. I sat and admired him as he continued his assessment of our garden.

  Up and down he pranced, peering closely at the pink flowers, taking stern objection to the purple ones and preening his shiny feathers a little in between. On second thoughts, he seemed a bit vain and indecisive. Mum’s flowers are pretty as far as I’m concerned, and she’s certainly worked hard to make them grow. I thought they deserved at least some praise.

  I was getting a little hungry in my hiding place. It was time to go in for dinner, but the bird was taking his sweet time, very much in my path. I waited until his back was turned before I emerged from under my bush and crept slowly across the lawn, taking care to avoid any noise or sudden movement, my ears rotating towards the bird for surveillance. A sudden screech made me jump. Looking back, I saw the bird running after me, his slim neck and red-faced head now elongated menacingly in my direction. I broke into a trot, but the bird’s long legs worked like pistons to catch up with me. In the end I had to take great leaps in order to stay out of range of his beak and made the cat door with no time to spare. As I dived through, my ears rang with the hysterical warbling of the bird as he charged past. Stunning though he looked with his gleaming feathers and elegant tail, the bird would have to go on my list of undesirable visitors, along with the fox and the fluffy black cat.

  I barely had time to get over my encounter with the bird before a small dog invaded our garden and peed on every tree. I saw it from upstairs, where I’d been snoozing on Robin’s window sill. Where were our dogs when you needed them? I went to get Mum and Dad. While the dogs snored peacefully in the living room, Dad went outside to meet the vagrant, who was absolutely delighted to see him, jumped high, yapped and panted. It took Dad ages to get a grip of its collar to see its tag and who it belonged to. When Mum opened the door, the dog cheerfully transferred its attention to her, jumped up to give her a big kiss on the lips and a black mark on her white shirt, then ran into the house to greet me.

  Now, being chased by a bird in the garden is one thing; having my home invaded by a wayfaring scruff is quite another. While I may be half the weight I was back then, my claws are as sharp as ever and I can still fluff myself up to a good size. A couple of yowls and a few right hooks later, the dog was happy to go back outside. Dad used one of our dogs’ leads to take it away; Mum washed her face and shirt; I felt ravenous after the adrenaline rush of my defence of our realm and tucked into my food with gusto; the dogs continued to snore.

  14

  I FIND THE BED OF MY DREAMS AND DECIDE TO MAKE MORE USE OF IT

  Mum has always been resourceful when it comes to providing me and Tammy with comfortable sleeping places. In every house I’ve lived in – and there have been many – she’s created cosy corners and interesting viewing platforms for us. From the little fleecy bed placed next to the big black box that is Tammy’s all-time favourite on cold winter nights to the folded baby quilt on the window sill with views of the garden, she has excelled herself many times.

  Sadly, there have been failures, too. She tends to get carried away by glossy leaflets from pet shops showing cat models enjoying all kinds of useless beds. I don’t think she realizes those cats are getting paid to look pleased, when in fact they loathe, like I do, beds with raised sides that allow no views of the surrounding area, even if – or maybe precisely because – they have pictures of me printed all over them. Or the raised platform bed precariously suspended from the radiator by two thin brackets. How do I know it’s safe? It doesn’t look it. I might be warm up there, but I might equally well drop like a stone in mid-snooze. No way am I going on there. Tammy has tried it a couple of times – she doesn’t think ahead the way I do – but even she couldn’t take to it long-term.

  The truth is: custom-made beds are bad news. They cramp my style; they will me to get into them, and I feel trapped straight away. It’s as though they were made expressly to lure unsuspecting felines into fake consumer cosiness. I won’t have it. Why spend money when it’s far easier and vastly more comfortable to improvise with what is readily available naturally: a pile of clothes, casually thrown on a bed; an open newspaper on the breakfast table; Dad, asleep on the sofa. All perfect – and free! In Australia, I used to find the washing basket really comfortable, particularly when it was filled with clean, dry clothes either waiting to be ironed or already folded into neat, sweet-scented piles. Then Dad remodelled the laundry room and the basket disappeared, though to his credit he replaced it with a draught proof corner under a cupboard that was almost as good.

  Pillows make excellent resting places. Mum’s, preferably, but just about anyone’s will do if she’s not available. Ever since we moved here, Mum and Dad’s bedroom door has remained open. In other houses it used to be shut, but there we had other bedrooms and other members of the family to sleep with. Now we just have Mum and Dad, so they had no choice but to let us in; I made sure of that. One large pee on the carpet in front of their room, and the message seeped through – literally. So now I can sleep on Mum’s pillow whenever I want to and purr into her hair, which smells reassuringly of all kinds of things I like.

  Absolute sleeping perfection, however, was not achieved until Mum went on a shopping spree and returned with a purchase which fulfilled all the criteria for a perfect bed: it wasn’t a bed; it was flat, allowing 360⁰ views, while also being luxuriously soft and warm; it went on the floor in Mum and Dad’s bedroom; and nobody expected us to sleep on it. We’ve both been sleeping on it ever since. It’s white and fluffy like a big, silky-smooth, furry friend, and we love it. It’s absolute indulgence. Full points to Mum for this one; she can take all those other cat beds away.

  Our new sleeping quarters didn’t come a minute too soon. As it turned out, I was in need of a good rest almost as soon as our new furry friend made its entrance into the bedroom.

  One memorable day in late summer we were taking our usual stroll around the forest when a man and his dog stopped to have a chat. I faded into the bracken as usual, but the dog picked up my scent. I knew straight away that my cover was blown and took off in the direction of our garden with the dog in hot pursuit. He was fast, for a dog. I weaved in and out of trees, dived under bushes and flew over fallen tree trunks, the dog’s rasping breath never far behind. I knew I couldn’t afford any wrong turns or hesitations – fortunately, I knew the forest well by then. But I realized I wouldn’t have time to stop, take measure and jump up onto our fence with the creature so close behind, so I chose instead to use a convenient rabbit hole under next door’s wire fence for my return to safety. From there, it was an easy few strides to the top of our wooden fence and down in between the conifers to the wide expanse of our lawn, while the dog sniffed up and down the path, whimpering and wondering how I had managed to vanish like that. It felt good to have outwitted him, but it had been a close shave; I was desperately out of breath and my heart took a long time to stop thumping in my chest. Should age be catching up with me a little? Surely not. It was simply a matter of not venturing out quite so far in future.

  Yet I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t been able to run as fast as I used to. Sure, I’d outrun my pursuer – he was just a dog, after all – but I wasn’t at all sure I could do it again if the need arose. So it was with a heavy heart that I decided no
t to walk in the forest again. Instead, I took to staying behind when Mum, Dad and the dogs went out and called after them to remind them not to stray too far; they are so careless when left to themselves. I was always relieved when they came back unharmed and I was able to greet them at the gate.

  Over time, even my forays next door to my mossy wood pile became fewer and fewer as I chose safety over adventure – a totally new concept for me, but one I felt I was ready to embrace now that the furry rug in the bedroom beckoned so enticingly on sunny and rainy days alike.

  15

  JUSTICE PREVAILS

  Isn’t it wonderful how some problems just resolve themselves? As autumn closed in and the shooting started up again in the forests around our village, my enemy the bird spent more and more time in our garden. No doubt he felt safer with us than out there in the path of the guns. However, given our last encounter, I was uncomfortable with his warbling, sharp-beaked company and really wished he would go away, so I could at least have my garden back now that I had given up on my forest walks. Little did I know that the solution to my problem was only just around the corner.

  The fox and I had developed almost cordial relations over time: we knew of each other’s existence, but kept to our own patch and each minded our own business. I was relieved to find he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in my mossy wood pile. He did like rabbits, but there were plenty around for both of us and besides, I prefer the small springtime bunnies to the larger rabbits he took. I was still wary of him, his feral scent and sharp, white teeth, but he never paid me much attention, so we got along just fine on those occasions – less and less frequent – when I ventured over the fence into next door’s pine tree grove.

  The neighbours at the bottom of our garden have chickens, and I regularly observed Mr Fox staring at them longingly in the early mornings. He tried various ways to get at them, but failed every time: their coop is sturdily built and they are protected by a dog who sounds the alarm whenever there’s danger. I could tell he was really annoyed by the presence of the fat hens just inches from his nose, and frustrated that he couldn’t kill them.

  It was on one of those mornings, as the fox had been circling the chicken coop in vain since dawn that the big bird flew in again. I had just settled down on Robin’s window sill after my early morning walk and first breakfast, and found myself in the best possible position to witness his arrival. As usual, he wasted no time on diffidence, broadcasting his arrival with a flutter of wings and an indignant warble. I thought he was making a mistake; the fox was very close. Sure enough, he rounded the corner of our house in a heartbeat, crouching down and gliding forward stealthily, soundlessly, an admirable hunter, just like me in the old days. The bird had embarked on round one of today’s flower inspection – so silly, as there were hardly any left at this time of year – and noticed nothing untoward. The fox crept nearer.

  I could easily have warned the bird with a tap of my claw on the window, but frankly: why would I? The foolish, indecisive creature who had unfairly criticized Mum’s flowers and tried to jab me with his beak in my own garden deserved to be taken down a notch.

  The fox seemed to share my view. He had crept as close as he could and now stood frozen in picture perfect stalking pose, one paw lifted slightly, his long, pointy nose almost to the ground, a model of poise and focus, the only movement the morning dew trembling on his whiskers in anticipation of his tasty breakfast. His ears were tilted forward at the perfect angle; his cold eyes never left his prey even for a second. It was a textbook performance.

  I knew of course that we had reached a crucial moment: if the bird saw him now, he might still get away. He had wings, after all, and even though he was a pathetic flyer under normal circumstances, with a fox in pursuit he might yet develop unimagined skills. I did a quick ear scan of the house: nothing. Mum and Dad were still asleep; good. Their interference at this important point would have been embarrassing. Goodness knew they’d done it to me often enough. No need to humiliate the fox as well.

  The bird had completed his inspection of the shrubs in Mum’s new border, her particular pride and joy but not, it seemed, up to the bird’s exacting standards. He turned haughtily away, dismissing a late flowering bush with a flick of his arrogant head, and made to strut off.

  The fox’s timing was faultless – I expected nothing less of him by now. Like a flaming arrow he shot across the lawn and connected with the unlucky bird. His jaws closed on the gleaming neck before the bird even knew he was there. The beginnings of a warble of alarm died in his throat. I could almost hear the crack as his neck broke, almost feel the warmth of its feathers and blood in my own mouth. What a superb kill! Mr Fox was a true expert at his game. I felt privileged to have witnessed such a masterful performance, if only from the window sill.

  The fox did not hang around. With the bird’s long neck hanging limply from his mouth, he trotted off, jumped the fence in the direction of his den and was gone. I was so thrilled by what I had seen and felt so energized at the thought that the annoying bird was forever gone, I couldn’t go to sleep for ages and just sat on the window sill, reliving the excitement while staring at the empty garden, where a solitary tail feather was all that was left of the snooty bird.

  16

  BACK TO THE PRESENT

  So here we are, and my tale is coming to an end. Several seasons have passed since we arrived in England. The new house has become our home, where we belong. I know every little nook and cranny in it, and every inch of our garden at all times of the year.

  Tammy and I like the summer best; I reckon Australia is still in our blood after all. When the grass is lush and green, when all the flowers open, dispensing their sweet scents, and when the bees lull us to sleep with their hum as we lie on the sunny stone terrace, soaking up the warmth, I sometimes dream of our home back on the hill among the gum trees and kangaroos, of the spicy aromas of the bush, the prickly, parched paddocks and burning sun. I wonder whether another cat lives there now and explores our stable, the rat house and the frog pond? It seems like part of another life, such a long time ago.

  Personally, I’ve always had a weakness for the autumns on this side of the world – I so approve of the colour scheme. Looking out from Mum and Dad’s bedroom window at the riot of warm colours in the forest beyond our hedge, I am transported back in my mind to the forests of America – the bright shades of red, yellow and brown that provided such perfect cover for me on my hunting expeditions. Our forest here is very similar: even the musty autumn scent is the same, and just smelling it makes me feel young and vigorous again. I also think of my friend over there, grey cat Piglet, and hope he’s had a happy life, just like I have.

  I feel the cold these days; winters are difficult. I spend my days curled up next to the heater in Dad’s library and avoid doing my business outside. There have been more and more ‘accidents’ in the house, and Mum finally relented to the point of providing a litter tray for my use upstairs, so I can at least stay in all night (I have to go a bit more often nowadays). And – strange thing – the world seems to have grown quiet around me: I really have to strain my ears so as not to miss the sound of our bowls being filled at dinner time. Fortunately my sense of time has not been affected, so I still know with precision when they are due to be filled and line up the others, who are often fast asleep and unaware of the pending excitement of food.

  I don’t stray from our garden any more. The fences are high and there are too many surprises out there. I reckon I’ve seen it all anyway, so why expose myself to danger at my age? Mind you, I’m still agile and could probably give Mr Fox a run for his money – if I wanted to, that is, which I don’t. He’s welcome to my mossy wood pile now.

  Mishka is getting old: she can hardly get back on her feet after lying down for a while, and sometimes she limps badly. She has also gone completely deaf, poor thing. I have to shout in her ear to attract her attention. On the upside, I hardly ever have to hit her any more, because she’s fast asleep most of t
he time, so no more bad deeds. I marvel now that Tammy and I were ever scared of her.

  Even Max has gone very quiet and spends a lot of time curled around Dad’s legs as he works at his desk. All three of them rely on me more and more to tell the time and generally to keep them in order. Goodness only knows what they would do without me.

  Christmas is coming. I can tell from the smells that drift in from the kitchen, where Mum is once again baking little sweet things. A tree was put up recently, along with all the other decorations that always turn our house into a magical place for a while during this time of the year. Tammy and Mum wrapped presents the other day, and the following morning the children started arriving: first Caroline and John, then Robin and finally Emily and Jamie, who came with so much luggage it makes me think they may have come to stay. Did I mention that Emily is now a vet? That means we will have our very own live-in vet and no more scary trips down the road in the travel box. Fantastic.

  Now we will have party food, songs, games and laughter again, and a house full of all my favourite people. I think I can even put up with the crackers this year, for their sakes – and besides, they may have become a lot quieter, along with everything else.

  I will sit on the sofa, surrounded by my children, as they drink the hot wine that smells of Christmas, while the fire crackles in the big black box, and thank my lucky stars that have brought them back home to us. I’ve missed them so much.

  EPILOGUE

  Tigger left us on a breezy day in mid-March 2014, barely three months after his story ends, and only a day after he and I had put the final touches to his last chapter. He now rests in our garden in one of his favourite sunny spots.

  As he predicted, his tightly ruled household is now a shambles: 5 o’clock comes and goes, and without his noisy reminders none of the other animals wake up in time for their dinner. The rabbits have taken to visiting our garden and are nibbling at the flowers. Tammy is lost without his regular admonishments. What was he thinking of, leaving us like that?