Tigers. Once upon a time the ultimate hunters, the undisputed kings of the wilds. When tigers roamed free, we kept our distance. We lived in mud huts, lit fires and sharpened sticks, and prayed that tigers would just leave our miserable little villages alone. Every so often man and tiger clashed, and when man was fast enough (and very lucky) he’d escape with most of his limbs. If he survived, he’d spend the rest of his life by the village fire, threatening the children with the horrors of his encounter should they ever again poke his stump with a stick.
At some point in the 12th century things took a sharp turn in our favour. We starting shooting things, and the tiger population was slowly hunted to the edge of extinction. A couple of centuries ago we decided to add insult to injury, and started locking them up in cages and staring at them. Around 300kg of striped raw killing power, with 10-centimetre canines and claws that can cut through armour (and still cut a tomato) and your little kids can throw peanuts at it through the bars. This is not what nature intended.
Tigers in the wild have a look about them, a fire in their eyes that says, ‘I know what you’ve done to the other cats, human, and I know what you’re trying to do to me. Why don’t you get out of that car and tell me about it, while I rip you a new smile?’
And that’s the look our kitten gave me as I drove away from the clinic. My little boy had almost become a man, and my wife wanted to nip that swiftly in the bud.
She was right, of course, but I’d fought off this decision bravely. Did we really need to get him snipped? Could he not be trained to hold back on the territorial markings and random affections towards stray females? A kitten he may be, but beneath all that fluff there’s the spirit of a hunter; and the heart of a real man!
She’d been patient with me: we’d gone through animal rights, increased number of strays, behavioural benefits and the overall health of the feline subfamily. Remember that stain on the couch? We can’t have him doing that again. Remember the time he decided to mark his territory on the bed? Neutering will cure that.
But I was having none of it; we were committing an atrocity! But in a final moment of frustration my wife pulled out the big guns, the ones she has a cabinet full of, ‘Do you really want another man in the house? I thought you were the king of this jungle.’
I scheduled an appointment for the very next morning. And as I drove off I looked back into Fluffles’ eyes with quiet determination, ‘Sorry fuzzbucket; there can only be one.’
