Tigger (18 page)

Back home, Mum used to sing to us. She sang about our ears, the colour of our coats, the shape of our tails and about how clever and good we were. Our names came up a lot, and she stroked us while she sang. We always jostled to sit closest to her, so she could stroke us better, while Dad and the children rolled their eyes and winked at each other. Those were happy times. As we were waiting at the airport to board our plane to find our new home in the green country called England, I recalled Mum's songs and the touch of her hand on my body. I held that memory fast in my head throughout the whole journey, and it kept me going during what turned out to be the worst flight I had ever been on.

Although we had a room to ourselves on the plane – there being four of us – it was cramped and stuffy. Mishka howled for most of the first leg of the journey in an attempt to get released from her crate. I could tell we were fast losing the crew's goodwill because of the way she carried on. Eventually, the howls turned into short, high-pitched yaps that pierced through my memories of Mum's songs as we swayed towards our destination.

On previous flights, I had always been allowed to leave my travel container between the individual legs of my journey. It had been a welcome opportunity to stretch my legs and do my business in a litter tray provided for me. Not this time: we stayed on the same plane for the entire journey, and although it landed somewhere and all the human travellers got off, we were not allowed to leave. There were cleaners moving about, wielding dusters and bin bags, and we were introduced to a new captain and crew. Everyone was very friendly, but I hardly listened, I was so desperate to get out, smell fresh air and go for a pee. As our plane lifted off again, I was able to hold on no longer and relieved myself in a corner of my travel container. It was lined with a fleecy material that had been nice and soft to lie on, but now the damp seeped through. It was disgusting. I sat up for a long time, trying to avoid getting wet and smelly, but eventually I grew so tired I sank down onto the soaking fleece. Looking across at Tammy, I saw that she, too, was lying in a wet patch. We exchanged sad looks while our journey continued.

A whiff of pooh was drifting across from the dogs' crates. Mishka had finally gone to sleep, snoring deeply, oblivious to the evil smells she had produced. The rest of us were just glad to have some peace and quiet.

When at long last the plane touched down and we were carried off into the fresh air, I knew I couldn't have survived in the cramped, fetid conditions for one minute longer. The sky was blue with little fluffy clouds; the air was mild, but fresh. The relief of feeling firm ground under our feet briefly revived us.

Once we arrived in the airport building, the dogs were allowed to leave their crates. They were given a wash before a man in a white coat checked them over and read the paperwork attached to their crates. Tammy and I waited and waited for someone to come and release us from our soaking containers, too, but nobody did. They checked our papers; that was all. The dogs looked much happier after their bath and smelt better, too. Or perhaps my own smell was by then so bad that all others faded by comparison.

After what seemed like forever, a stern-looking woman loaded us onto a trolley, while another one put the dogs on their leads and then, unprepared for their combined strength and bad manners, skidded along in their wake as they charged off and burst through a pair of swing doors to the outside world. We heard her yell as the doors banged shut behind them; then there was silence.

We were wheeled through more corridors on our trolley, and when we reached the exit, there – finally – were Mum and Dad. They were holding on to a dog each and looking embarrassed. There was no sign of the woman who had taken the dogs out; she must have escaped as soon as she could, to tend to her cuts and bruises. You really couldn't take those dogs anywhere. Tammy started meowing as soon as she saw Mum, telling her about the awful journey and how wet and dirty she felt; I just sat quietly, trying to be brave, as I had promised to be. Mum and Dad stroked us through the bars of our travel containers, but still they didn't let us out. I reckon they felt we were too wet and dirty to be let loose on the shiny new car that was waiting for us nearby.

All the way along the road to our new home, Tammy kept up her calls for help while I craned my neck to take a good look at this new country. I couldn't see much from where I sat, just big trees meeting overhead and small white clouds chasing each other across a blue sky.

Finally, finally the car stopped. Dad lifted our containers out and we saw our new house. It was tall and white, very different from our old one. He carried our containers inside and at long last opened their doors. We staggered out onto the cool stone floor of a spacious hallway. Dad showed us the kitchen, where bowls of food stood ready for us, but neither of us was in the mood for dinner. Mum took us upstairs into a bright, white bathroom and ran a warm bath with soapy bubbles in it. This would normally be my cue for vigorous resistance, but for once I actually welcomed being submerged. She soaped us down, rinsed us off, wrapped us in soft towels and rubbed us dry. The bad smell had not quite gone even then, but we felt so much better. Tammy crept into a little pink tent Mum had prepared for her in a quiet corner, curled up and went to sleep, but I couldn't rest yet. I stayed with Mum as she tidied up and followed her around our new house.

It was big and very empty: once again, we seemed to be starting a new life with the bare necessities. I remembered moving into other empty houses in other countries and felt the familiar excitement of new places and their intriguing prospects. What would we find here, and would I like it? There was an upstairs and a downstairs with lots of rooms. As we passed through the kitchen, I had a little snack and a long drink. The food and water were delicious. Refreshed, I was ready to explore the outside world and spied a cat flap in the back door. Mum made a feeble attempt to stop me, but I just weaved around her legs, jumped through the little door and – what bliss after my long days of imprisonment – found myself out in the open at last.

A quick tour of our new garden revealed a green and wild place with a range of opportunities. Big trees and bushes lined the edges of a wide lawn in an overgrown tumble of leaves and flowers, allowing intriguing glimpses into dark places underneath. The vegetation was so lush and bold! I marvelled at the softness of the grass under my paws, so different from the hard, prickly ground of our garden in Australia, and at the dense foliage of the shrubs and trees. Everywhere smelt green and fresh. My nose, confined for so long to the stale air of the plane, was assaulted by a bewildering array of scents from all directions. Only gradually did I manage to distinguish wave after wave of new and exciting aromas: the earthiness of a forest floor; the sweet smell of flowers by the fence; the fresh fragrance of tall conifers, a little reminiscent of the gum trees back home; occasional whiffs of rabbit, bonfire smoke and rotting leaves that reminded me of America. Tiny birds were giving their evening concert in timid little chirps and long, melodious solos; furry bumblebees were buzzing homeward; cars passed on a distant road. I rotated my ears in a happy daze, trying to take it all in.

The dappled light of the setting sun was weaving dancing patterns through trees in many shades of brown and green that grew beyond a tall hedge at the end of the garden. I scaled the top of a timber fence to take a look into the dark forest and to my delight spied a pile of mossy logs among the trees so similar to the one I had left behind in America all those years ago, I had to blink hard to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Where the forest ended, a field of long, wavy grass dotted with grazing rabbits stretched away into the distance. Not bad; not bad at all!

I was swaying dangerously on top of the fence; the long journey was catching up with me. Best return to the house and find a bed for the night that was rapidly falling. Mum and Dad were already in the bathroom, getting ready to go to bed. I was surprised to find they actually had one, complete with pillows and a soft duvet. It was easily big enough for the three of us, and I longed to be close to them after our long separation. As it turned out, so did Tammy. She emerged from her pink tent just as our little procession passed along the landing, and we all jumped into bed together. Tammy curled up on Mum's pillow, while I settled down in the soft folds of the duvet in the valley between Mum and Dad. Someone's hand stroked me gently as I drifted off into the first deep sleep for ages.

Tammy and I slept so deeply, we didn't even notice Mum and Dad getting up in the morning. Not until the familiar smell of Dad's mid-morning coffee wafted upstairs did I feel Tammy stirring against me. Slowly we stretched, yawned and reminded ourselves where we were: tucked into Mum and Dad's bed in our new house, in the new country! The excitement of it all catapulted me from the bed. Tammy found it harder to embrace our situation. She peered carefully over the side of the bed and called for me to wait for her. Quick, then – there was no time to lose! A whole new world was waiting to be explored!

Nervously, Tammy followed me down the stairs, one step at a time. Stairs were a new concept for her, so I patiently waited on the half landing for her to catch up, and then again at the bottom. When she had finally made it all the way down with many stops, sniffs and starts, I led her into the kitchen. Our bowls were waiting for us on the counter top, well out of the way of the dogs, who were lying on the tiled floor, looking smug: they had never been allowed into the kitchen in our old house. Why had the rules changed? I would go and complain.

But there was no sign of anyone. Mum must already be at work. I couldn't find the children either and didn't remember having seeing them yesterday. Then again, yesterday was all a bit of a blur. I would look again later; breakfast first. My meal last night had been rushed, and Tammy hadn't had any food at all. We were starving. The kitchen was bright and cheerful in the morning sun. The coffee machine was spluttering happily and music drifted through the door from somewhere. We followed our meal with a thorough cleaning session, to rid ourselves of the remnants of the bad travel smells and Mum's bubble bath, after which I invited Tammy to accompany me outside. She was very reluctant. Just one look through the cat door and a sniff of the outside world were enough for her. Then she used the litter tray and ran back upstairs, presumably to find her pink tent and sleep some more.

I, on the other hand, was ready for a long walk. It was a glorious day, and I spent it almost entirely outdoors checking out every corner of our new garden, with only short breaks in the house for more food. I looked around for Dad and found him working at a make-shift desk. He was talking on the phone and didn't react when I told him that the dogs were in the house. The children were nowhere to be seen. That was disappointing, but I was too busy to mind much.

By the time the sun went down and Mum's car came up the driveway, I was happily installed on my new mossy wood pile in the forest next door, which being on a slope allowed excellent views of the field, the long driveway up from the road and our front garden. I ran over to greet her and told her all about my discoveries: the fascinating trail of strong scent that ran diagonally across our back garden, the endless forest beyond the hedge, my new mossy wood pile and – best of all – the presence of tree runners busily gathering nuts. I had already checked out where they lived and which paths they used for foraging. In my excitement, I completely forgot to complain about the dogs in the house.

Mum was very pleased to hear how well I was settling in and suggested we should go for a walk together in the forest while it was still light. We took Dad and the dogs and walked out through a convenient gate in the tall hedge at the back of our garden, straight into the forest. We climbed uphill for a little while before the ground levelled out and we entered a green wonderland of ferns and wildflowers, protected by big trees of many kinds. Some were excellent for climbing; all were great for sharpening my claws. We wandered around happily on soft forest paths covered in pine needles and leaves, taking in the unaccustomed scents with their underlying green softness in contrast to the pungent, prickly brown smells of the Australian woods we had left behind.

I had never been out for a walk with the dogs before. It was fun. They, too, liked to stop and sniff a lot, so our progress was slow, but we carefully took in every tree trunk, shrub and flower, and Mum and Dad didn't mind. When we turned back home, I led the way without hesitation.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, tucked in between Mum and Dad again, I began to feel that the terrible journey might have been worth it, and that we could be happy in this new world.

If I had thought we were going to be left in peace now to settle into our new surroundings, I was mistaken. Dad had hardly put our travel containers away in the garage (never to be seen again, I hoped) when the first tradesmen arrived. They turned the house inside out, ripping up floors, hammering on the roof, measuring windows and wielding large paint brushes. It was way safer to stay outdoors between the hours of breakfast and dinner. The dogs thought so, too, and even Tammy was persuaded to join us occasionally, although she never ventured further than the edge of the wide stone terrace by the back door. The weather remained bright and sunny, which allowed us to rest on the warm stones while listening to the distant hammering, bumping and scraping in the house.

The tradesmen hadn't quite completed their jobs before our furniture arrived in two big trucks. Once again, box upon box was carried into the house and deposited somewhere, usually in the wrong place. In between the boxes, the men placed pieces of furniture in such a way that it was tricky even for me to get from one end of a room to the other; for humans, it was impossible. Mum had wisely packed her suitcase a couple of days earlier and flown off somewhere far away, Tammy was still catching up on her sleep, and the dogs were good only for getting in everyone's way. There was still no sign of the children, so I had no choice but to sit with Dad as he unpacked box after box and to marvel at all the things that emerged. We were pretty tired by the evening, as we sank into the sofa we had found behind a wall of boxes. I offered Dad my back to scratch, which never fails to relax us both, and we had a snooze before going to bed.

A friend came the next day to help us unwrap a staggering number of the kinds of things humans need to prepare their complicated meals. Were they really all ours? And did we need them? Personally, I reckoned a couple of bowls each would suffice, same as I have. But here they were, and soon the cupboards began to spill over. Dad said this kitchen was too small for us and our things would never fit, but I sensed he was just tired and fed-up with moving. You couldn't blame him. We had done this so often, and in the past there had always been Mum and the children to help. Now he just had me. That night, I put my paw on his leg as we sat side by side, watching TV across the sea of boxes and told him everything would be all right. He patted my head and thanked me for my moral support.

Over time, Dad gradually cut a narrow path through the boxes so he and the dogs could at least move around the house without having to climb over them. Tammy and I once again enjoyed jumping from one on to the next, and they provided a workout for Tammy, who was still sleeping way too much. The drifts of wrapping paper really woke her up: she dashed in and out of open boxes, hiding among the rustling, white sheets and startling Dad as he reached in to find things. She wasn't one bit interested in exploring the great outdoors I kept telling her about.

The number of boxes shrank only slowly, despite our combined efforts. No sooner had Dad cleared a small area than other boxes appeared from out of nowhere to claim the empty space. I could tell Dad was getting weary of it all; I'd never seen him scratch his head so often.

Fortunately, Mum returned home just as things were really getting on top of us. She emptied her suitcase and gave it to Dad to fill with his things, then he fled in a taxi and we were home alone with Mum for a change. The unwrapping continued day after day; I did not think we would ever get to the last box. But by the time Dad returned, things were beginning to look okay. Any unopened boxes left were scattered around the house rather than taking over each room. With Dad back in action, we made short work of the last few. The man with the paint brushes finished his job, collected up his dust sheets and drove off. Dad, Mum and I sat down on the sofa, looked around at our orderly house and took a deep breath. The move was over.

As if on cue, the weather broke. The mild, sunny days gave way to a period of cold and rain, during which I stayed indoors and explored the new and pleasant phenomenon of white panels along the walls of every room. They had a habit of warming up early each morning to a cheerful clicking sound, while a pipe by the back door puffed out white clouds of smoke. It was a grand spectacle deserving of close observation and also had the pleasant side-effect of warming up the house now that the sunny season was clearly over. The carpet right by the mysterious panels grew particularly warm, providing cosy patches for a snooze.

I was generally out on my first morning walk at dawn, long before the whole performance started and looked out for the tell-tale smoke signals from the vantage point of my mossy wood pile, sheltered from the rain and wind by big pine trees, while watching the village come to life and the first cars file down the road. Once the smoke appeared, it was time for me to run back home to alert Mum and Dad to the fact that the clicking panels were about to stir into action. I knew they wouldn't want to miss that. Dad woke up easily enough when I walked across his chest on my way to Mum's pillow. It took more effort to wake her: occasionally she was so reluctant to respond, I had to tug at her hair to make her get up. On those days I reflected wistfully that it really was about time the children arrived, to provide more entertainment in the mornings and a better chance to get my breakfast at the appointed time. But they remained elusive.