Tigger (21 page)

It was a fine, cold day in late winter. Even though the snow had all gone, there was a touch of frost on the grass where I walked: it crunched very slightly when I put my weight on it. The smell was all of damp moss, leaf mould and something I couldn't quite identify: a strong scent of wild creature. As I was doing my business under the shelter of an overhanging bush, I saw it: a dog, crossing our back lawn. I was alarmed to begin with, but soon puzzlement took over. Dogs didn't smell like that – not that harsh and musty. I remembered smelling this before. It was the strong scent I had tracked in our garden on my first day. So who was this intruder? He was about my colour and had a pointy nose, and when he turned I saw a very bushy tail. I had a feeling I had seen similar dogs in Australia, though only ever from afar. Emily had watched the lambs carefully when they were about, because apparently those dogs liked lamb for dinner.

He stopped, sniffed and continued on his way diagonally across our back lawn. He must have come in from the forest. I decided to stay quietly under my bush and watch as he slipped in between the high conifers that marked the eastern boundary of our garden and scrambled up on to the fence. Dogs didn't jump that high, surely? I heard a slight bump as he landed softly on the pine needles on the other side, then silence.

I waited for a while under cover, hoping for further developments and was rewarded: before long, the forest dog's pointy nose parted the conifer branches once more. After a moment's hesitation, he emerged fully and retraced his path across our garden in the direction of the open forest. He perched for a minute on the fence, took a good look around our neighbours' gardens as well as ours, then disappeared into the gloom. I breathed out: for a second there, I had feared discovery. His sharp, cold eyes seemed to miss nothing, and I sensed that a confrontation with him was best avoided.

I stayed motionless, camouflaged by the winter foliage, in case he came back again. He did, several times: each time he followed the same path from the forest fence to the conifer hedge and back. He didn't seem to be carrying anything, but he was definitely on a mission of some kind. Finally, he disappeared in the forest for the last time. His departure left me worried. What had the strange dog been doing? The spot where he had jumped over the fence was very near my mossy wood pile. I would need to check him out. But it could wait until later, once his strong scent had faded and his presence no longer loomed over the garden.

I went inside and joined Dad in the library. He asked me whether I'd seen the fox, and what I thought of him. A fox? So that's what it was? And what
did
I think of him? I settled down on the sofa to ponder the question. I knew precious little about foxes beyond what I had just seen, but it was enough to make me uncomfortable. As for my mossy wood pile: I had no idea whether the fox and I might find a way of sharing that part of the forest, or what I would do about it if we couldn't.

I was extra careful the next time I went outside and stayed close to the cat door until I was absolutely certain that there was no scent of fox in our back garden and no paw prints on the frozen lawn. Only then did I venture further out, all the way up to the fence, and jumped lightly to the top. Still no sign or scent of the fox. I jumped down, gingerly crept over to my mossy wood pile and scanned the surrounding forest. The frost sparkling on the bracken covering the forest floor was undisturbed. A couple of squirrels were chasing one another up a pine tree, the rabbits were all out on the field for their morning graze: all signs of normality and the absence of danger.

I inspected the undergrowth around me in more detail, keeping to the cover of the bracken with my belly to the ground. It didn't take me long to pick up the fox's trail. It led to the far side of the slope, where the ground was bumpier and scattered with broken branches and rotting leaves. I hadn't been this way before because of the difficult terrain, and my progress was slow. I didn't fancy this part of the forest; too wild and messy. The fox was welcome to it. His scent ended at the base of a large pine tree and there, well disguised by undergrowth and fallen branches, was an excavation that opened into the side of the hill among the tree roots: the fox's home? It had to be, judging by the strong scent all around it. I took a careful look inside the deep hole: nothing but blackness and the powerful smell of long-standing occupation, but no sign of recent activity. Was Mr Fox in there? I would have to be on my guard from now on, but at least I had the advantage of knowing where his den was.

Slowly and carefully, I retraced my steps, hung around for a bit on my mossy wood pile until I saw the unmistakeable smoke signals rise from our back door, then went home for my dinner. As I chewed my fish meal, I wondered idly what Mr Fox liked to eat. I was to find out soon enough.

What is it with this family? Nobody ever seems to stay in one place for any length of time. It's very unsettling. We hadn't enjoyed Robin's room for long before he started packing up clothes and a whole lot of other things like kitchen tools, lamps and books. They were all piled into the car until it was full to the roof. It took me back to the time when Caroline left us to go to university, and he was almost as excited. There were pictures of aeroplanes all over his desk, and when he wasn't packing, he was flying planes on his computer. The thought occurred to me briefly that he might be going off to learn how to fly real planes. But no – surely not! How could anyone want to do that for a living? Wild horses wouldn't drag
me
onto another plane. I decided it simply couldn't be and put the niggling worry out of my mind.

Even so, when Robin said good-bye to us and drove off in the car with Mum, I was distraught. How would he cope out there, all on his own, without me to see to his safety and productivity each day? How could Mum and Dad let him go? Didn't they realize he was way too young and had had self-harming tendencies all his life? I was disappointed by their irresponsible attitude. Once the car had disappeared down the drive, I went upstairs to Robin's room to inhale his familiar scent, which lingered strongly everywhere. At least he had left us his comfortable room and bed. He had also left many of his things behind, a sign that he would come back to us one day. The prospect was comforting. I turned my attention to his bed with all its comfy pillows, well positioned to catch the sun streaming in through the window, and set about keeping it warm for his return.

I didn't have to wait so very long: as it turned out, he's been coming back quite regularly for a few days at a time. Nowadays, instead of his old jeans he wears a smart black uniform with golden stripes on the sleeves, which he whips off and puts away as soon as he arrives, even before Tammy gets a chance to lie on it. And yes, there is an unmistakeable smell of aeroplane about him, so I guess my hunch was correct and he's flying planes after all. Well – what am I to do about it? Maybe humans enjoy flying. They are quite strange in so many ways; why not in this? I just hope someone looks after him out there. Meanwhile, we give him a really good time whenever he comes home to us by hardly leaving his side, to make sure he feels welcome and appreciated.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Not long after Robin left in the car with Mum, I noticed a change in the weather and in the season. The air became warmer, the days longer, the snow finally melted, the sun managed to crest the trees at the top of the hill for a little longer each day and began to heat up the stones on our terrace. Small, green shoots appeared on the trees; big, golden flowers opened up all over our lawn, proclaiming spring. It was fun being outside again.

I resumed my walks in the forest with Mum or Dad and the dogs. Each time we discovered something new and interesting. One day we came upon a small girl sitting high up in a tree. She was holding a little black dog in her lap and called down to ask whether I was a cat. What did she think I was? Mum introduced me to her to clarify the situation. Even then, she seemed very surprised to see me out walking. Well, to be honest, we were surprised to see her sitting in a tree, so there.

Another time we discovered a wooden bear leaning against a tree. He looked a little worse for wear; one of his forelegs was missing and his face was lined with deep grooves. I think he was quite old; I wondered where he came from and what he was doing there. Maybe he was the guardian of this forest? He never moved, mind you, just stood in the same spot always, so he wasn't exactly patrolling the place. I'm sorry to say Max peed on his leg.

Unfortunately, we also met other dogs. The first time it happened, I was taken by surprise, having assumed that the forest belonged to us, just as the paddocks in Australia had been ours. But Mum explained that this forest was open to everyone, and that we would just have to be careful and on the lookout for other walkers. Fortunately, with the start of spring the undergrowth in the forest began to burst forth. Before long, I was able to disappear under a dense canopy of bracken fronds whenever a strange dog came our way. The others would then hang around the spot where I was hiding until the danger was past and we were able to resume our walk in peace.

Tammy greatly admired my courage to walk out into the wild forest with the dogs. She listened wide-eyed to my adventures, but there was no way she would be persuaded to join us. Our garden was large and quite exciting enough for her to explore. She loved playing hide-and-seek behind flowers and shrubs, darting about like a white flash until I felt dizzy watching her, racing up trees with great energy and determination, only to look vaguely puzzled when she got to the top, as though she couldn't remember why she had climbed up there in the first place, and how she did it. She also took a shine to Mishka's kennel for her afternoon naps. Its interior was sheltered from the wind and a luxurious sun trap.

So I went off on my own to find tasty rabbits, juicy mice or the odd bird to take home as gifts. Even though the forest was teeming with squirrels, I had made a conscious decision not to hunt them any more. Killing the one in America had been fun, but once was enough. Ever since my nightmare in prison, squirrels hadn't seemed worth the effort any longer. Anyway: who needed squirrels when there was so much else to hunt? I enjoyed myself tremendously as it was and felt brimful of energy. Sunbathing just wasn't my thing.

All the exercise was giving me an excellent appetite, yet I felt my body grow leaner all the time. I was practically flying over our fence, my muscles were so lithe and there was so little weight on me. When Mum picked me up, she remarked that I was as light as a feather. She seemed worried about that. How typical! For years, while I was housebound and getting badly out of shape due to their dogs, the whole family had made fun of my chubbiness. Now I was fit and lean, for some reason that was no good either. There's no pleasing humans. I for one was perfectly happy with my new shape.

It's a sad truth that a cat cannot allow himself a minute of distraction, even in his own home. Mum caught me in one of my rare off-guard moments, as I was snoozing in the morning sunshine. I was immediately suspicious when she picked me up and briskly carried me into the kitchen, humming one of her little soothing tunes for added subterfuge, feigning cheerfulness. I was not fooled for a second; my claws were out and ready for battle.

Even so, it came as a shock to see my travel container standing open on the kitchen table. I had firmly believed we had a deal that I should never see its interior again. I struggled heroically, but she had already slipped me inside and banged the door in my face before I could get my claws in position. Then she carried me outside to her car. I was seething with anger at her trickery. She had put some little treats into the container to mollify me. I threw them out one by one as she got into the car next to me, and I hissed and yowled all the way down our driveway, along the open road and into the unknown, reminding her of her promise that there would be no more trips. No more! She made happy noises and continued to drive. I began to suspect she had gone insane.

At least our journey didn't last long. We turned into a car park, Mum stopped the car, lifted me out and carried me into a house. As soon as we entered, I knew what this was, because there's only one place that has that heady mix of disinfectant, fear and pee: we were at the vets. Actually, I've never minded the vet. Once they open the travel container door, there is much to occupy an inquiring mind. A wealth of intriguing equipment is just waiting to be explored: cupboards filled with little bottles and boxes, bowls containing dog treats or soft cotton wool pads, interesting posters on the walls illustrating my insides, and of course the scent of hundreds and hundreds of other animals that have passed through the consulting room before. Should I ever run out of things to investigate, which happens rarely, then there's always a comfortable white plastic platform to one side where I can curl up and doze while Mum and the vet talk about me.

Of course, before the interesting part begins there is usually a wait in an open area where other patients – including dogs – hang about and often misbehave. There was one this time, desperately scared and unashamed to show his fear to all the world. He had already peed on the floor, and when that had been cleaned up, he proceeded to howl and beg for mercy. His owner was almost in tears by the time the vet opened the door and asked them to come in. Dogs are so pathetic.

When it was my turn, I strolled from my container to commence my usual round of exploration, occasionally interrupted by the vet, a nice young lady, who insisted on prodding my insides and listening to my heart with one of those earphone things Emily used to annoy me with. It was only mildly uncomfortable and didn't interfere much with my main agenda. Plus, the vet admired me, stroked my head, back and tail, checked my teeth (cleaned only just the other year, so no need to look again!) and talked at length to Mum. Then she encouraged me to step on to the plastic platform on the side. I wasn't really ready to settle down there – I hadn't had time yet to look at the area over by the sink – but humoured them by sitting down on it for a minute. The vet fiddled with the buttons on it and then spoke to Mum, who looked worried. But Mum is easily worried, so I didn't pay much attention to the long conversation that followed, and during which I continued my investigations of the room. I discovered a fascinating model of a cat just made of bones, no flesh or coat; it looked weird and smelled of nothing but dust.

Before I had time to check it out properly, the vet picked me up and carried me into another room to meet the nurse. Between them, they produced one of those long, sharp needles and took some blood from my leg. I knew the drill and held still; it's easier that way. When we got back to Mum, I was ready to return to my travel container. I had had fun, but it was time to go before they thought of anything else. How well my instincts always serve me: just before I slipped into my box, the vet opened my mouth and pushed a large white tablet down my throat. I was so stunned, I swallowed it before I realized what it was: a worming tablet! I hate those things and never take them if I can help it. Disappointed by the vet's deceitful behaviour, I withdrew behind the bars of my travel box and turned my back on her.

Mum received a mysterious plastic bag, then we were out of there. Back in the car, Mum opened my container and gave me the run of the car while we drove home. It was so much better. I actually enjoyed the trip, checking the car over and looking out of the window as we sped along, just like I used to do years ago. We saw a row of shops, people and dogs out walking, a train passing over a bridge – all very entertaining. I settled down on the soft platform in between the two front seats, just by Mum's shoulder, and helped her find our way back home.

Tammy was waiting for me in front of the house. She looked so relieved when I jumped from the car. As usual, her imagination had got the better of her, and she had feared the worst for me: another move. I told her all about my visit to the vet and she was totally impressed by my adventure.

That night, Mum bustled about secretively before bedtime, then carried me out into the lobby – a small room by the front door – and locked me in there. I was confused. Why would she do such a thing? We'd had our adventure for the day, surely, and it was time to go upstairs to bed. How could I sleep in the lobby with its cold stone floor? True, she had prepared a blanket for me in one corner and a litter tray, but why? I wasn't aware of having done anything bad. I had even taken a worming tablet at the vets, for crying out loud! I walked back to the door and called and called for Mum. It didn't take long before she came back, looking guilty, as well she should. She opened the door a crack and slipped into the room next to me. I started making my case and asked her what she meant by her behaviour. Put on the spot, she explained she needed me to do a wee in the litter tray, for the vet. That was all? Just a simple pee? Why didn't she say so straight away? Humans are so
complicated
. I walked over to the tray, stepped inside, squatted down and did a big wee. There; done. Now was she happy?

She was! She absolutely beamed at me and called me her clever cat. So were we going upstairs to bed now? We were, thank goodness. I watched Mum pour my wee into a small plastic tube and close it with a stopper, and then finally we climbed the stairs together.

Whatever message my pee had given the vet resulted in a bottle of tiny pills. Mum put one in my dinner and told me to make sure I ate it. It was quite tasteless and small enough not to bother me. I've taken one each day since then, and while it hasn't helped me put on any weight, it seems to make Mum and Dad happy, so I guess it's worth it.