Tiger Tiger

My Beautiful Tiger

I wanted to write something a little more lighthearted, although no doubt this will hark back to mental health at some point! Things today have been pretty shit mood wise. I’ve been an irritable little bitch all day. I’m still an irritable little bitch. Everyone’s finally got wise and have left me in the downstairs living room while they watch Blades of Glory at my sister’s request. I don’t know why, but they just seem to be making so much bloody noise. I feel like clawing my way out of my head. I can’t stand this mixed mood shit.

Anyway. Tiger.

So, those of you with a little logic on their sides may have guessed. This beautiful cat is my baby boy Tiger, though he’s hardly a baby these days. We got him when he was 6 months, I was 10 years and my sister was 9 just after Christmas 2000 – hence the wholly original name! He’s just surpassed the grand old age of 8 and is still as gorgeous, albeit a little fatter, as he was when we first picked him up from the rescue centre all those years ago.

Fat Cat

You can’t see it here properly but he has a beautifully dappled leopard belly.

I often just sit and watch him some days, sprawled under the dining room table of infront of the fire, occasionally twitching – no doubt to some epic dream of mouse catching – and get all teary and overwhelmed. This is probably just me being biased like a mother would be about their sprog but I look at him and think he is truly the most beautiful cat in the world, and then sigh heavily. Granted though, he’s a right tit at times. He does stupid things. His first “kill” was a string of sausages that my mum had thrown on to the embankment and minutes later Tiger trots in with them between his teeth, looking all smug and proud of himself. There was a time when he brought in a live mouse to show my mum, promptly dropped it at her feet and let it escape under the kitchen units. We were the ones who had to catch it, and after days of trying, it ended caught in a mouse trap. He can be a hopeless hunter. During the summer months we often find dead mice and the like on the lawn and the only bird ever caught was one that had hit the patio windows and was out cold. He was preying on the vulnerable. We chased him off and saved the bird.

The Hunter

When he’s not hunting wildlife he’s either hunting us or a nice place to kip. A couple of years ago, he had this little habit of jumping up nighties to claw arses in the morning. Nowadays he plonks his heavy self on your lap and listens while you talk to him, or at least that’s what I kid myself he’s doing. Half the time he just ignores you unless it’s a food related issue.

From what little information we got and his slightly odd behaviour at times, it’s apparent he was abused as a kitten. For one, he’s terrified of blokes. Sees one and he’s off in a flash making a dash for the back door or cowering behind the sofa. The only guy he can handle is my dad, yet this depends on how arsey he is when he bothers to wake up. Sometimes he’ll take a swift swipe at him. He becomes a proper little Tiger.

Really, I could take the oppertunity to turn this into another therapy related post, which was initially the idea, but right now I’m just too wired and awful I can’t think about “the benefits of Pet therapy”. All I can say is, is get a cat. To a point they’ll take care of themselves. All you have to remember to do is feed them and let them out for a piss when they start climbing the door.

He Has Rather Large Feet For A Cat