Tigger

I got Tigger at the cats home. He was a bit bigger than the other kittens and I thought it’d mean he was more grown up, less work. I called him Tigger because he was a little tabby, striped like a tiger.

I had bought several brands of cat food for him to try, I feared he might be a fussy eater, but he ate all of them in a single sitting. He even had enough appetite left to help me with my chicken supper.

I’d thought that because he was big he’d soon stop growing, but I was wrong. He had a tremendous appetite and swelled up, he was soon bigger than any of the other cats in the neighbourhood.

Then one day a curious thing happened. There was a knock on my door and who should be there but a policeman.

“Can I help you?”, I asked.

“It’s about your tiger ma’am,” he said.

“He’s called Tigger, not Tiger,” I corrected him.

“I shall make note of his name, ma’am but m y main concern is the fact that you have a fully grown tiger and that he’s been bothering the neighbourhood.”

“He‘s not a tiger, he‘s a tabby.”

“May I see,” he paused to consult his notebook, “this ‘Tigger’.”

I took him through to Tigger’s room, where he was curled up sleeping.

“You see ma’am, if he were a common domestic cat your ‘Tigger’ would be approximately two foot long. The fact that he is nine foot long and has teeth the size of steak knives suggests that he is in fact a fully grown Bengali tiger.”

“Fully grown already is he? They grow up so fast, don’t they.”

“You’re missing my main point miss, we’ve had a series of complaints that your tiger has been scaring children and animals in the neighbourhood, one report of his eating an escaped canary and a report of a missing Jack Russell dog.”

“Oh dear.”

“If he were any other animal than a tiger I would issue a warrant for his termination, as a threat to local people and wildlife. However, as tigers are a protected species...”

I hurriedly interrupted at that point, “Oh yes, in which case he is Definitely a tiger.”

“Thank you ma’am, I needed that assurance, however, as tigers are a protected species, I can only require you to take greater care of him.”

He handed me a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a tiger asbo. It means that if he’s ever let out of the house unaccompanied he’ll be taken away and kept in a nearby zoo.”

“Oh but little tigger loves to go out and stretch his legs, play with the other cats. I couldn’t possibly keep him locked in.”

I eventually managed to shoo the policeman away, with an assurance that Tigger would behave himself. I hoped I would never see him again. I certainly little expected to have to call him the next day.

“Ah, it’s you miss. Problems with your tiger? Would you like me to arrange for a zoo to help you out?”

“Not at all. Tigger’s been as good as always. In fact he’s been the perfect guard cat and caught a couple of burglars.”

“Burglars ma’am.”

“Yes, I woke up to find two young hooligans with a bagful of my stuff, lying flat on the floor with Tigger on top of them.”

“They’re still there then?”

“Oh yes, Tigger’s looking after them. Would you like to come and collect them?”

Two days running seemed an extraordinary coincidence, but on the following day, a Wednesday I believe, I answered the door to find him standing there again. This time he was holding a big, gold medallion in his right hand.

“Congratulations, ma’am,” he said, “I bring good news. Your tiger has become a hero, he stopped a bank raid.”

“A bank raid?”

“Yes ma’am, we have the CCTV footage to prove it. There were three members of a notorious local gang forcing their way into the safe of the Nat West in the High Street, when a tiger in a President Obama mask followed them in, disarmed them and lay on top of them until we arrived. In very much the same way as he disturbed the burglars at your house yesterday.”

“Well then young man, if he was wearing an Obama mask you don’t know it was my Tigger, it could have been any tiger, or large tabby cat.”

“I checked the local Census, ma’am, Tigger is the only tiger in the district. He’s a hero now, look, the Mayor asked me to present him with a medal.”

He held out the award, which looked like something you might get for lunging a javelin a long way, but I wasn’t convinced. "Well, if it wasn’t another tiger, maybe it was President Obama dressed in a tiger suit. Have you thought of that?"

He made me let him in though, to present the medal. “Ah, look at this,” he cried, “a President Obama mask in Tigger’s basket.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I said, “I saw a child wearing a mask just like that just yesterday.”

“Yes, a child, but not a tiger.”

Well thank goodness that’s over, I thought when he finally left. I could do with not seeing that young man again for another ten years. But, sure enough, he was back again the next day, clutching yet another medallion.

“Obamatiger has struck again, ma’am,” he said.

“Obamatiger?”

“It’s what the press are calling him. This time he saved the entire town from destruction. You see a billionaire oil tycoon (who for some unfathomable reason is half ostrich) was planning to take revenge on the town by dropping a nuclear bomb on us. A tiger, wearing an Obama mask, flew up to the hellicopter, wrestled the controls from him, and saved the town from destruction.”

“But Tigger can’t fly. He can bounce, but he can’t fly.”

“I can quote a witness statement, ma’am. ‘There was some initial confusion as to the nature of our saviour, it was suggested that it might be a bird, or even a plane, before it was accepted that it was in fact a tiger in a President Obama mask that was flying to our rescue.’”

The policeman left the medal again, even though I protested that my little Tigger couldn’t fly.

And so it went on. Every few days he’d be back with a new medal. An evil banker, dressed as a penguin, tried to raise mortgage rates, but he too was foiled by Obamatiger. An evil council official, armed with red tape, tried to demolish the local hospital, but Obamatiger stopped him too, and persuaded him to cut Council Tax at the same time.

Everyone makes such a fuss and says that my little Tigger is really Obamatiger, but I think that’s just nonsense. Just look at him, curled up in his cat basket, does he really look like a superhero to you? He’s just my little kitten.