The wonderful thing about tiggers

It took me a long time to get anywhere near this cat. I don’t know her real name or even if she is a she. "Tigger" was what sprung to mind when I saw the stripes. The first time I saw her she was pretending to stalk the hens in the yard across the road. Needless to say the cock was keeping a careful eye on her. On our evening walks we’d find her sat looking down on us from a high wall in the fading light, just like the Cheshire cat in Alice.


The first time I found her in the garden she was lying in the shade of the clothes horse on a hot day. At first I was not allowed to go near her, but over time she got used to me. I’m allowed to stroke her head while she talks to me in her whiney voice; she doesn’t have a normal cat mew. Then she’ll roll over and squirm around showing me her fluffy tummy which I am not allowed to touch.

She’s been told not to catch the birds in the garden, so when she sees me coming she pretends to be intently looking for a mouse under the hedge. She’s not allowed to roll around on the carrot tops so they are all squashed flat where she’s been. Her favourite trick is to lie down behind me when I’m putting out the washing so if I don’t pay attention I’ll tread on her tail.

When I go back indoors my last sight of her is of a majestic queen sat up straight with her tail neatly wrapped around her front paws.