Tigger (20 page)

Due to all the excitement outdoors, it was a while before I had time to give our new garage my full attention. I had been looking forward to exploring it, remembering all the fun I had had in the big shed and in the stable in Australia. What was this new garage, which stood opposite our house across a wide courtyard, hiding behind its three big doors?

The doors opened automatically just like the ones in America. I secretly hoped for another time-consuming incident involving one of the cars and bits of wood flying in all directions. Dad and I had had such a great time putting that door together again. But for the time being, both Mum and Dad were careful to follow the correct procedure of opening the doors before reversing out.

My favoured scenario being unavailable, I had to content myself with looking around the garage when the door was left open one day. The space in there seemed disappointingly small to begin with: just enough for two cars and rows of shelves along the back wall, jammed full with all kinds of things that weren't needed in the house. Somewhere up high, I spied my travel container. It was unsettling to see they had kept it. Surely there was no need for that?

There was also an old wardrobe, its doors firmly shut, and a bookcase I recognized from Caroline's room. Instead of her neat rows of books and nick-knacks, its shelves now displayed rusty hinges, a cardboard box full of little bits of wood, an assortment of tools and plenty of dust. Cobwebs were appearing in its corners, a sign that spiders were universally busy creatures. I looked further up into the rafters and saw plenty there, too, although they could hardly compete with the Australian ones when it came to size and density. After all, the spiders themselves were tiny here and seemed quite harmless as well. I smelled no rats or mice, which was disappointing. However, since the outdoors provided them in such abundance, I decided not to upset myself unnecessarily at this shortcoming.

There was a smaller room separated from the garage by a sliding door that stood half open. It was pitch-dark in there; my eyes took a few seconds to switch to night vision. The room looked as though it might one day become Dad's wood workshop – his workbench and drills were all here – but for now it was a messy place where they had deposited everything they didn't know what to do with. I saw a number of unopened boxes as well as furniture still wrapped in brown paper and tape. I weaved in between them to get a sense of the size of the room. It would be all right for Dad once it was sorted out, though not a patch on his old room, which had easily been twice this size, with two windows. But it would be nicely out of the way for when he started making a lot of noise with his tools: watching Dad work anywhere except at his desk was generally a startling experience involving sudden bangs, ear-splitting screeches and deep roars that vibrated all through my body, therefore a room of any size well removed from the rest of the house was good news.

I emerged blinking from the little side room into the lesser gloom of the main garage and caught a small movement out of the corner of my eye at the top of the old wardrobe. It was just the hint of a movement, and it stopped as soon as I looked, but I knew it had been there. I went on strolling and sniffing around the garage for a while in order to lull whatever was hiding up there back into a sense of security before pretending to leave by the open garage door. Only I took a right turn instead and jumped up on to the roof of Dad's car, which stood in front of the wardrobe. My claws were well retracted – not just because Dad gets terribly upset when I scratch his car, but also to avoid noise. My scheme worked: there was no movement on top of the wardrobe to suggest I had been detected. But there was a black shape up there, and once I stood perfectly still I could also hear level breathing and at the same time caught the unmistakeable whiff of tomcat. Seriously bad news.

I had no way of knowing how big he was, since I could only glimpse the top of his back and a bit of one ear, but, my own size now being much trimmed down from my former, chubbier shape, I would have to be careful and rely on my agility and cunning rather than on brute force, just in case he turned out to be a heavy-weight. My big advantage was that he didn't know I was still here. But the fact that he had dozed off so soon after having seen me bothered me: it must mean that he was either quite old or a very seasoned fighter who did not fear competition.

All things considered, I simply didn't have enough information on my opponent to risk a frontal attack, particularly in the precarious and limited space on top of the wardrobe. There was nothing for it but to lie in wait for him somewhere on the garage floor. I found a hiding place behind an old roll of carpet and some buckets. A piece of the carpet was trailing on the floor, providing warmth and comfort. I reckoned I could be comfortable there for a while.

This turned out to be fortunate indeed, as my opponent was not in a hurry. I sat patiently on my piece of carpet while the weak winter sun crept slowly along behind the tall forest trees, now bare of leaves, before dipping listlessly down behind the hill, leaving our garden in gloom. It was very boring, but I was warm and the carpet was soft, and from time to time I dozed off a little – but never for long.

The tomcat didn't move until it was almost dark and my tummy was beginning to rumble. We probably had similar mealtimes and he wanted to be on his way home. He stretched, yawned and then climbed a little stiffly down from his perch. I was relieved to see he was no youngster; probably my age or older. I waited until he was down and on his way towards the open door before pouncing on him. I landed a swift right hook on his face before he even knew what was happening. He shook his head and rose up on his hind legs, as did I. I reckoned we were about the same height, although he was heavier and quite hairy in a messy kind of way. I dodged his paw when it came my way, caught him again on the nose and at the same time threw my weight at him and bit deep into his neck. He lost his balance and fell over, yowling loudly, and we rolled around the garage floor for a while. He bit and spat, trying to gain the upper paw, and gave as good as he got. At one point his claw caught my ear and I felt it tear, but was far too cross to feel any pain. Once we had ascertained that this was an even fight, we separated and circled, hissing abuse at each other. He told me he'd slept on this old wardrobe for as far back as he could remember. I told him it was now
my
wardrobe and
our
garage, so his presence was no longer wanted, and encouraged him to add that to the things he could remember. He grew furious at that and dealt me another blow, which I returned and saw to my satisfaction that I had drawn blood on his nose. A couple more punches and he was on his way. I chased him down the driveway and yelled after him never to come back.

When I was sure he had gone, I went home to see if dinner was ready. My timing was excellent: Dad was just serving it up. He noticed the blood on my ear and asked what had happened. I told him it was nothing; humans don't need to know about everything we do. He shrugged and went on to give the dogs their dinner, but when Mum came home he mentioned my ear to her. Of course she made a fuss, got out the camomile tea and the little cotton pads and grabbed me in a tight clinch. I held still for a little while and let her clean my wound, just to calm her down, before I wriggled out from under her restraining arm and ran back outside to check that my enemy was nowhere to be seen.

I needn't have worried: he never came back. A while later, Dad tidied up the garage, sorted out his wood workroom and got rid of the old wardrobe in the process. Now it really was our garage. As for me, I've carried the marks of my victory ever since, in the shape of a slit in my ear – a warning to any other potential intruders.

The story of my fight has become one of Tammy's favourites, which she asks me to tell her time and time again at night, before we go to sleep. She never tires of admiring my bravery and licks my ear while I relate how it received its slit.

Winter arrived with a vengeance one night. Thick frost covered the lawn by morning, the leaves on bushes and trees sparkled silvery-white and it was so bitterly cold when I went outside that I feared my nose might freeze. A little later it started snowing, gently at first, then more and more. By lunchtime the snowflakes were as big as my paws and came down thick and fast. They covered the driveway in a thin, wet layer. Mum returned early from work. Dad lit a fire in the black box and we had a cosy evening together in the living room.

When I emerged from my door the next morning, the garden was covered by that same thick, white blanket of snow that I remembered so well from America. It was all just the same as before: the cold under my paws, the fresh scent and the stillness. Everywhere was white, even the air around me. It was still snowing. No cars passed on the road; the village was eerily quiet.

Our driveway was covered in snow so deep I could hardly keep my head above it as I ploughed across. I had to abandon my usual walk at the fence, where a snow drift nearly swallowed me up and looked instead for a sheltered spot where I might do my morning pee. There weren't many bare patches left anywhere in the garden. I ended up right under a bush, while the heavy snow load on the branches above me threatened to come down on my head. I was glad to get back into the warm, dry house.

Mum couldn't go to work, because her car was snowed in. She and Dad worked together on their computers in the library. We all moved in there for warmth and company as more and more snow piled up outside. The flowerbed outside the window wore a white cap so high we could barely see the driveway over it. The entire garden gradually disappeared before our eyes in deep, deep snow – far deeper than I had ever seen in America. It was beautiful, but icy cold. Nobody came to visit; not even the postman in his little red van.

We didn't really mind. After lunch Mum and Dad took the dogs out for a long walk through the deep snow. I opted to stay home and watch from the comfort of the living room as they trudged through the back garden to the forest gate, wrapped up in hats, scarves and thick gloves. The black box was on and Tammy roasted happily beside it in her little bed. We had a peaceful snooze while the red flames licked the window of the black box. When Mum and Dad returned, they brought with them the fresh scent of the frozen forest. Mishka loved the snow so much, she didn't want to come in and spent the afternoon lying in the garden, snapping at snowflakes and occasionally having a joyful roll. Her fur is much, much thicker than mine and keeps her warm even in very cold weather. Max was less sure about the snow and was glad to warm his paws by the fire.

It went on snowing for a very long time. Tammy was miserable; she had decided it was just not possible to go to the toilet in the snow. Mum tried to teach her to dig a little hole under a bush, like I do, but it was no use. After a couple of failed attempts, Tammy was given a litter tray and was much relieved.

The snow had stopped falling when we got up the next morning, so Mum and Dad set about clearing the driveway. I followed them outside to supervise. Dad sawed an old door in half, and they used a half each to shovel up the fluffy, white snow and tip it over the fence into the paddock next door. It didn't seem to be too hard a job, but it is a long driveway and they only managed to do half of it before they came back in, red-cheeked and steaming hot, to where I was already waiting for them in the kitchen. It was time for lunch. They continued again afterwards, but I was too tired by then to join them and had a well-earned snooze by the fire instead. By the time darkness fell half-way through the afternoon, they had cleared the whole driveway and even scattered some sand over it. Then they ventured out in the car and returned with shopping bags full of food and drink, enough to keep us fed forever. Now it could go on snowing for as long as it liked.

And it did: the following morning, the driveway was once again covered with a good layer of fresh snow, with more coming down all the time. The tire tracks of the day before were soon swallowed up again.

Now that we had all this winter wonderland right outside our windows, Mum began to decorate the house with fir tree branches collected in the forest and brought the Christmas decorations in from the garage. During a brief break in the weather, they brought home a tree and put it up in the living room. It smelled wonderfully like the one we'd had in America and looked magnificent once it was covered in baubles and lights. There was an air of happy anticipation in the house, of what I wasn't quite sure, but I looked forward to it anyway.

I guessed we were having house guests, because of the way Mum had been cleaning and making up beds in between rushing off to work whenever the roads were clear. I wondered who might be coming to stay with us. One very early morning, Mum and Dad left in pitch darkness, taking both cars. They were out a long time, well past our usual breakfast time, and the dogs were getting very fidgety when finally we heard the cars purr up the driveway. I ran outside just in time to see all our children spill from the cars, along with Jamie and John. Now I understood the reason for all that snow: it was to set the scene for a magical white Christmas for the whole family!

Dad unlocked the front door and the dogs nearly knocked him over in their eagerness to say hello. They jumped about, wagging their tails, upsetting suitcases and tripping people over while Tammy and I rubbed against everyone's legs and purred. It was the best Christmas present anyone could have given us.

The celebrations began. We had so much fun together, just like in the old days: the kitchen was always full of delicious food and tantalising smells, the living room a scene of laughter and games, there were sing-songs around the piano in the library, and even the dining room, otherwise rarely used, became the setting of long meals with candles, pretty glasses and that one alarming and quite unnecessary accompaniment to Christmas meals: the cracker. We were joined by lots of other people as well; the house was full to bursting. When everyone sat down to dinner, the big dining room table was crowded. Tammy and I sat underneath, admiring all the pairs of legs around us. There wasn't enough space left for the dogs to squeeze into the room, but they lay in the hall, close to the open door, and watched with dreamy expressions as meal after meal unfolded. Occasionally, they tried to trip Mum as she carried large plates of food across from the kitchen, but most of the time they were well behaved. It was Christmas, after all.

The wintry weather continued all through Christmas, and everyone thought it was wonderful. The garden saw many snowball fights. The dogs chased each other around bushes and through snow drifts, knocking people over and barking a lot. They rolled in the snow until their coats were covered in icy fluff and snapped at the snowflakes falling from a leaden sky. Even Max seemed to be happy out in the cold. The children built a strange snow creature and put a hat on it. I had about as much fun out there as you can have when you're almost buried in snow, as I was. Mostly, I watched from the sidelines or from a window. But when everyone had come inside and it was safe and quiet in the garden once more, I strolled around the snowy tunnels created by the others and marvelled at the bluish whiteness all around me.

Sadly, as I've discovered in my long life, nothing lasts forever, not even the good times. One day, the snow began to melt and soon afterwards everyone packed up and drifted away. I was sad to say goodbye to them all. Again and again, I watched the car go down the drive, taking some of my children away. Only Robin seemed set to stay with us; he sorted out his room and made himself at home. We were relieved to be able to keep him at least, and I happily resumed my responsibility of looking after him. I made sure he got up in the mornings, supervised his breakfast, showed him secret places in our garden and in the forest and advised him on the maintenance of his mountain bike, which had once again taken up residence in the garage. Tammy and I adopted his new bed as our favourite place, night and day. I don't think Mum and Dad minded. They were busy back at work.