Tigger (7 page)

Summer arrived in full force. Some days were so hot and humid that hunting was out of the question after sunrise. All I could do was drag myself to a shady spot, stretch out on the cool earth and sleep all day. By late afternoon, there were often spectacular thunderstorms. I would run inside at the first distant rumble, then Mum, the children and I would watch from the safety of the sofa in the living room as the heavens cracked open outside. It was pretty scary: bright lightning flashed across the garden, thunder boomed above our heads and torrents of rain ran down the windows, completely blocking our view. Afterwards the garden smelt fresh and strong as each plant drank in the rain and breathed a sigh of relief after the heat. Mum opened the windows wide to let the cool air into the house. Back on the prowl outside, I had to zigzag across the driveway to avoid deep puddles, and the grass on the lawn was squishy under my paws. The trees had an annoying habit of dripping water on my head as I passed beneath them; in fact the whole forest was drip, drip, dripping all around me.

The mornings after a thunderstorm were always the best: the sky was bright blue and the air clean and fresh. One such morning I was sitting on the front veranda, surveying the garden below, when I spied a group of tree runners making their way across a big oak tree branch towards the little plum tree that had recently provided shade for our teddy bear's picnic. They took it in turns to jump from the oak tree branch on to the plum tree, pick a plum, jump back onto the oak tree and disappear up its trunk, cradling the stolen plum. One after the other they helped themselves to our fruit, more and more and more of them racing up and down the oak tree, greed written all over their cheeky faces. I was appalled – shameless burglary was taking place in front of my very eyes, in broad daylight. The plums were barely ripe! Worse still, I knew at that moment in my heart of hearts that plums were in fact my favourite food, much better even than cake or chocolate. I could almost smell the juicy fruit as it disappeared up the tree at an alarming rate. I could also smell the tree runners.

Fighting down the urge to run down to the tree and chase the thieves off, I swiftly plotted a battle plan instead. Had I not been waiting for such an opportunity for ages? Had I not realized long ago that greed was a tree runner's only weakness? My hour had surely come, but I had to be clever now. They were nimble, but I was smart. And so I lay low on the deck for some time without moving a whisker. The humans were out, there was nothing to disturb the tree runners in their thieving progress. I watched every move they made. As the little tree was gradually depleted of plums, it became harder for the tree runners to pick the remaining ones: only low-hanging fruit growing at the very end of the thin branches was left now, and the creatures' weight was bending the branches right down towards the ground. I had my eye on one particular plum, which grew right at the end of the lowest branch – the hardest one to get, surely. Soon it was indeed the only one left. I crawled down the steps of the deck in the shade of the hand rail. Inch by inch I crept up to the little tree, keeping my body close to the ground and using bushes and clumps of grass for cover. Not for one second did I take my eyes off the tree runners. I listened out for any sign of alarm amongst them, but they were too intent on their harvest to notice me. Besides, I am a masterful hunter. I was quite close now and settled down in the high grass, hind legs gathered under me, until the right moment came. I did not have to wait long. A tree runner had discovered my plum and was making its way towards it. The long, thin branch of the little tree began to bend down as the creature crept further and further out from the trunk. I could tell it was aware of the risk it was taking: the branch could well snap or bend all the way down to the ground, and it was a long way to the nearest big tree trunk. But it continued nevertheless, unable to resist that last plum.

It all happened in a flash: the branch dipped down low, the tree runner lost its balance and flipped over, holding on to the branch from below now, eyes on the plum, claw outstretched to pick it. Its back and tail were only inches from the grass. A quick wiggle of my bottom, and I pounced. In the split second as I flew through the air towards the creature, I saw its head turn and its eyes widen in surprise. Then my teeth closed around its neck and I heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bones. The creature was mine!

Holding the limp, warm body in my mouth, I marched to the very centre of the lawn, where I could be clearly observed by all its mates, laid the creature down on the grass in front of me and took a large bite out of its side. It was juicy and delicious; no plum could taste better. All around me, I heard tree runners screeching in alarm; no more giggling now – I had the last laugh. I licked the blood off my lips and continued my feast. From time to time I stopped to look around, but the screeches were fading as the scoundrels were scampering off to safety, letting the neighbourhood know that this garden was to be avoided in future. I was able to crunch away undisturbed.

I was halfway through my feast when Mum and the children returned from the shops. Mum came over to see what I was eating and was amazed when she realized I had caught a tree runner. She actually called it a squirrel when she told the children, who also came to admire me. It was all very satisfying, a real triumph. Looking back now I would say it was probably the highlight of my entire life.

By the time Dad came home, only the bushy grey tail was left of my tree runner squirrel. I thought he might like it as a decoration for his sun hat.

When the schools broke up for the summer, Mum took the children away on holiday. She left me and Dad in charge of the house. Dad had a long list of jobs to do while she was away. I was going to supervise everything and lend a paw if necessary.

He needed help before they had even left. As Mum gathed up their last few bits and pieces from around the house, Dad and the children took the suitcases out to the garage, loaded them into the car and got in. I waited outside for the spectacle of the big garage door opening. It was an automatic door and I loved watching it go up all by itself. This time, however, I had to wait: a lengthy argument was going on inside the car. Robin was asking lots of questions in a high-pitched voice and Dad was answering them in his low one, then the girls chimed in as well and everyone talked at once. Eventually, Dad must have had enough; he started the car. That meant the door would go up any second now – I craned my neck so as not to miss the moment. But the door stayed shut. Instead, the car came crashing through the closed garage door, sending splinters of wood in all directions. There was not much left of the door at all when the car came to a screeching halt on the driveway.

Dad got out to take a look just as Mum appeared at the kitchen door. She stood there silently with her mouth open. It had also gone very quiet inside the car. The garage door was in a bad way. Only one or two bits of wood were still attached to the frame, the rest were spread all over the driveway. The car had several dents at the back, where it had hit the door. Dad said a very short word, scratched the top of his head and looked upset. I walked up to him and leant against his leg to lend support. Mum joined us and patted him on the back. I could feel Dad's leg relaxing a bit. Mum bent down to say goodbye to me and told me to look after Dad. The children just waved quietly from the car. I watched them drive away with mixed feelings. I was looking forward to being in charge of the house with Dad, but the debris behind us didn't seem like a good start.

My misgivings were unnecessary: Dad and I had a great time together, even though it took us two whole weekends to repair the garage door. Reassembling all those pieces of wood in the correct way was a real challenge. Dad used lots of nails and several more very short words. After four days of solid work, the door still wobbled dangerously when it went up, so we added a few more thick pieces of wood for extra reinforcement. It didn't look quite as before, but at least we had a door again.

Once we had time to turn our attention to other things, we realized that most of the vegetables had ripened since Mum had left: the bean stalks were sprouting bright green fingers, the tomatoes were fat and red, and the rabbits had started eating the lettuces. There were dozens of ripe cucumbers as well. We picked an awful lot of vegetables. Dad froze the beans and ate cucumber and tomato salad every night. I tried some, but it was watery and slimy – definitely not something a cat would eat. Eventually he took some to work to give away. It seemed unfair that Mum should miss out on the harvest she had worked so hard for, and that Dad and I should end up with it all when we really weren't that keen on it.

At night, Dad and I slept together in the big bed – I had Mum's side. It was much more spacious than with the three of us, and we could snore as loudly as we liked without getting told off. On week days we had breakfast together, then Dad left for work and I spent the day guarding the house while snoozing in a shady spot until Dad's return. We ate our dinner in front of the TV, which we're never usually allowed to do. Our evenings were spent watering the remaining vegetables or sitting on the deck, reading the paper, appreciating each other's company. I sensed that killing the tree runner had been the beginning of my adult life. It had finally earned me respect in the garden. I had proven myself as a competent hunter and a guardian of our house. It felt good to be a grown-up.

When Mum and the children finally returned from their long holiday, things became a lot livelier. Once their music practice started up again in the afternoons, I found myself thinking back nostalgically to the long, quiet summer weeks. I think Dad did as well. Another mellow autumn with vibrant colours and clear, blue skies replaced the summer heat, and the dark green foliage that had sheltered my favourite sleeping spots became lighter and sparser each day, until the cold winds finally blew it away altogether. I moved back into the basement room then, as I sleep better in the dark.

Winter came again and my family decided to go away for a long weekend of skiing. This, apparently, involved gliding along on snow with the help of two long, flat wooden boards, holding on to a couple of sticks. They showed me how to do it in the garden. It looked like hard work – at least the children made it seem that way; they were forever falling over or bumping into trees. Personally, I failed to see where the fun was in that. It was not an activity I envied them, and it got boring after a while.

I was more interested in finding out what would happen to me while they were gone. Would Lily come back to look after me? I reminded Mum of her promise that I could stay home whenever they went away, and she told me not to worry. I still did, though.

A couple of days before their departure, Mum returned from the shops looking very pleased with herself. She placed a large box on the kitchen table and invited me to watch her unpack it. When we opened the flap, out came a set of two very fancy food bowls with elegant, blue lids. For me? Mum smiled and nodded, and explained to me that these bowls would allow me to feed myself while they were away, now that I was a grown-up cat.

I was intrigued to see how the new bowls worked. Might they perhaps enable me to help myself to extra food, now that I was a grown-up? Sadly, this turned out not to be the case. Still, they were pretty good: they knew when it was precisely five o'clock, my dinner time, at which point one of them clicked open to reveal my dinner of fish, kept fresh by the blue lid. The next day, the second bowl opened at the stroke of five. It was quite magical!

Of course, the downside of the new bowls was that you couldn't argue with them, or weave around them in a bid to get an early dinner, the way I do with Mum and Dad. No matter how much I shouted at them or tried to open the lids before five o'clock, they stayed firmly shut. They even tried to mock me by reflecting my own cross face back at me in their blue polish, so that eventually I took to turning my back on them until I heard the little click that announced dinner.

By the time my family came back from their skiing weekend, covered in bruises, the bowls and I had come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement: I left them alone and they refrained from showing me my cross face. It was a win: win situation. Everyone was pleased to see that I had been all right on my own. Why wouldn't I be? After all, Mum and Dad had even left my cat door open as a special gesture of trust, and I had done my best not to disappoint them: no fewer than three mice and one mole were neatly arranged on the mat for them.

From then on, my family often went away for long weekends and left me in charge of the house. I always enjoyed the peace and quiet after they left, but was equally glad to have them back after a few days.

It was during that same year that Robin had to learn to read, and Mum and Dad had to teach him. I could tell it was a tricky business to understand what all those little black marks on the page meant, so I didn't blame him for finding it hard, but I very much wished that Mum or Dad would continue reading to us in the evenings, as they had always done. Whenever Robin read, it took so long for one word to come out that I quite forgot what the story was about. It was no good going to Caroline or Emily's rooms for a bedtime story either: they had long ago learnt to read silently to themselves at night.

So Robin soldiered on throughout autumn, winter and into spring. He wasn't very happy when Mum or Dad made him read, and frankly I doubted whether he would ever learn how to do it. Then one evening, Mum relented and read to us to give Robin a break. She picked out a difficult book about a vet who could talk to animals. When she started reading, Robin and I were enthralled by the story about a man who apparently knew how to bark like a dog, meow like a cat and neigh like a horse. He could even talk to exotic animals like elephants and lions. I had often wished that my family, who are reasonably skilled now at understanding my simpler statements, could learn to speak my language, and here was a man who could! I wanted to hear more about him.

Unfortunately, Mum had an infuriating habit of stopping when she felt it was time for Robin to go to sleep. She would snap the book shut at the end of a chapter and declare that this was it for tonight. Robin and I were bitterly disappointed whenever she did that and always whined for more – usually to no avail. That particular night, she did it again, and Robin got very cross with her indeed, because the story was just building up to a particularly exciting part. When she would not give in, Robin grabbed the book from her hands and announced he would read it to me by himself. I admired him for his courage, but to be honest, I thought it was misplaced in this case, as he could surely never do it. So imagine my surprise – and Mum's – when he started reading, slowly at first, then more and more fluently, all the way to the end of the exciting bit. Then he fell back on his pillow, exhausted, and was asleep. Mum and I looked at each other in amazement. He had done it! He could read, and has done, ever since. The book about the man who could talk to animals is still my favourite, to this day, and Robin has read it to me many times over.