Tigger (23 page)

Isn't it wonderful how some problems just resolve themselves? As autumn closed in and the shooting started up again in the forests around our village, my enemy the bird spent more and more time in our garden. No doubt he felt safer with us than out there in the path of the guns. However, given our last encounter, I was uncomfortable with his warbling, sharp-beaked company and really wished he would go away, so I could at least have my garden back now that I had given up on my forest walks. Little did I know that the solution to my problem was only just around the corner.

The fox and I had developed almost cordial relations over time: we knew of each other's existence, but kept to our own patch and each minded our own business. I was relieved to find he wasn't the slightest bit interested in my mossy wood pile. He did like rabbits, but there were plenty around for both of us and besides, I prefer the small springtime bunnies to the larger rabbits he took. I was still wary of him, his feral scent and sharp, white teeth, but he never paid me much attention, so we got along just fine on those occasions – less and less frequent – when I ventured over the fence into next door's pine tree grove.

The neighbours at the bottom of our garden have chickens, and I regularly observed Mr Fox staring at them longingly in the early mornings. He tried various ways to get at them, but failed every time: their coop is sturdily built and they are protected by a dog who sounds the alarm whenever there's danger. I could tell he was really annoyed by the presence of the fat hens just inches from his nose, and frustrated that he couldn't kill them.

It was on one of those mornings, as the fox had been circling the chicken coop in vain since dawn that the big bird flew in again. I had just settled down on Robin's window sill after my early morning walk and first breakfast, and found myself in the best possible position to witness his arrival. As usual, he wasted no time on diffidence, broadcasting his arrival with a flutter of wings and an indignant warble. I thought he was making a mistake; the fox was very close. Sure enough, he rounded the corner of our house in a heartbeat, crouching down and gliding forward stealthily, soundlessly, an admirable hunter, just like me in the old days. The bird had embarked on round one of today's flower inspection – so silly, as there were hardly any left at this time of year – and noticed nothing untoward. The fox crept nearer.

I could easily have warned the bird with a tap of my claw on the window, but frankly: why would I? The foolish, indecisive creature who had unfairly criticized Mum's flowers and tried to jab me with his beak in my own garden deserved to be taken down a notch.

The fox seemed to share my view. He had crept as close as he could and now stood frozen in picture perfect stalking pose, one paw lifted slightly, his long, pointy nose almost to the ground, a model of poise and focus, the only movement the morning dew trembling on his whiskers in anticipation of his tasty breakfast. His ears were tilted forward at the perfect angle; his cold eyes never left his prey even for a second. It was a textbook performance.

I knew of course that we had reached a crucial moment: if the bird saw him now, he might still get away. He had wings, after all, and even though he was a pathetic flyer under normal circumstances, with a fox in pursuit he might yet develop unimagined skills. I did a quick ear scan of the house: nothing. Mum and Dad were still asleep; good. Their interference at this important point would have been embarrassing. Goodness knew they'd done it to me often enough. No need to humiliate the fox as well.

The bird had completed his inspection of the shrubs in Mum's new border, her particular pride and joy but not, it seemed, up to the bird's exacting standards. He turned haughtily away, dismissing a late flowering bush with a flick of his arrogant head, and made to strut off.

The fox's timing was faultless – I expected nothing less of him by now. Like a flaming arrow he shot across the lawn and connected with the unlucky bird. His jaws closed on the gleaming neck before the bird even knew he was there. The beginnings of a warble of alarm died in his throat. I could almost hear the crack as his neck broke, almost feel the warmth of its feathers and blood in my own mouth. What a superb kill! Mr Fox was a true expert at his game. I felt privileged to have witnessed such a masterful performance, if only from the window sill.

The fox did not hang around. With the bird's long neck hanging limply from his mouth, he trotted off, jumped the fence in the direction of his den and was gone. I was so thrilled by what I had seen and felt so energized at the thought that the annoying bird was forever gone, I couldn't go to sleep for ages and just sat on the window sill, reliving the excitement while staring at the empty garden, where a solitary tail feather was all that was left of the snooty bird.

So here we are, and my tale is coming to an end. Several seasons have passed since we arrived in England. The new house has become our home, where we belong. I know every little nook and cranny in it, and every inch of our garden at all times of the year.

Tammy and I like the summer best; I reckon Australia is still in our blood after all. When the grass is lush and green, when all the flowers open, dispensing their sweet scents, and when the bees lull us to sleep with their hum as we lie on the sunny stone terrace, soaking up the warmth, I sometimes dream of our home back on the hill among the gum trees and kangaroos, of the spicy aromas of the bush, the prickly, parched paddocks and burning sun. I wonder whether another cat lives there now and explores our stable, the rat house and the frog pond? It seems like part of another life, such a long time ago.

Personally, I've always had a weakness for the autumns on this side of the world – I so approve of the colour scheme. Looking out from Mum and Dad's bedroom window at the riot of warm colours in the forest beyond our hedge, I am transported back in my mind to the forests of America – the bright shades of red, yellow and brown that provided such perfect cover for me on my hunting expeditions. Our forest here is very similar: even the musty autumn scent is the same, and just smelling it makes me feel young and vigorous again. I also think of my friend over there, grey cat Piglet, and hope he's had a happy life, just like I have.

I feel the cold these days; winters are difficult. I spend my days curled up next to the heater in Dad's library and avoid doing my business outside. There have been more and more ‘accidents' in the house, and Mum finally relented to the point of providing a litter tray for my use upstairs, so I can at least stay in all night (I have to go a bit more often nowadays). And – strange thing – the world seems to have grown quiet around me: I really have to strain my ears so as not to miss the sound of our bowls being filled at dinner time. Fortunately my sense of time has not been affected, so I still know with precision when they are due to be filled and line up the others, who are often fast asleep and unaware of the pending excitement of food.

I don't stray from our garden any more. The fences are high and there are too many surprises out there. I reckon I've seen it all anyway, so why expose myself to danger at my age? Mind you, I'm still agile and could probably give Mr Fox a run for his money – if I wanted to, that is, which I don't. He's welcome to my mossy wood pile now.

Mishka is getting old: she can hardly get back on her feet after lying down for a while, and sometimes she limps badly. She has also gone completely deaf, poor thing. I have to shout in her ear to attract her attention. On the upside, I hardly ever have to hit her any more, because she's fast asleep most of the time, so no more bad deeds. I marvel now that Tammy and I were ever scared of her.

Even Max has gone very quiet and spends a lot of time curled around Dad's legs as he works at his desk. All three of them rely on me more and more to tell the time and generally to keep them in order. Goodness only knows what they would do without me.

Christmas is coming. I can tell from the smells that drift in from the kitchen, where Mum is once again baking little sweet things. A tree was put up recently, along with all the other decorations that always turn our house into a magical place for a while during this time of the year. Tammy and Mum wrapped presents the other day, and the following morning the children started arriving: first Caroline and John, then Robin and finally Emily and Jamie, who came with so much luggage it makes me think they may have come to stay. Did I mention that Emily is now a vet? That means we will have our very own live-in vet and no more scary trips down the road in the travel box. Fantastic.

Now we will have party food, songs, games and laughter again, and a house full of all my favourite people. I think I can even put up with the crackers this year, for their sakes – and besides, they may have become a lot quieter, along with everything else.

I will sit on the sofa, surrounded by my children, as they drink the hot wine that smells of Christmas, while the fire crackles in the big black box, and thank my lucky stars that have brought them back home to us. I've missed them so much.