Animal Reading Stories, A Short Story About A Cat Called Mr Tigger

This is one of those animal reading stories designed for those 'quick read' moments. Mr Tigger is a short story about an extraordinary cat, who leads an extraordinary life.

It is rare that an animal can have a profound effect on us - they are magically gifted creatures that seem to appear in our lives as old souls. Tigger was one of those cats. Tigger had a profound effect on me and my family.

Inspired from true experience of our wonderfully loved cat, Mr Tigger changed our lives and ourselves forever. In fact, Tigger laid by my side, as if to dictate this story so as I could tell you about him today.

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It all started just before Christmas, I was walking the dog down by the green near our house, when I saw my daughter coming towards me. She looked oddly different, even though the early evening half-light distorted the outlines of her familiar plump figure.

As we drew close, I saw the half-smile that played around her lips, and knowing my Sharon, felt that something out of the ordinary was afoot.

“Mum”, she said in that long drawn-out way she had, whenever she either wanted something, or had something to confess. “Look what I've got!” Unbuttoning the op of her coat, she revealed the head of a tiny tabby kitten, whose bright yellow eyes gazed imploringly up at mine.

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“Oh no!” I gasped, “You know your father can’t stand cats, for heaven’s sake take it back to where it came from, before he arrives home. But with the crestfallen look in Sharon’s eyes, and the tiny mew that escaped from her coat, I knew that I had already lost the battle.

When Len, my husband, got home that evening, I showed him the furry little scrap. He shrugged his shoulders, told me to feed it and find it a home in the morning.

The little creature devoured the remains of the Sunday joint, drunk the top of the milk from two pints, and promptly went to sleep in my Husband’s favourite chair.

The next day, I half-heartily asked friends and neighbours if they would like a tabby kitten, but was inwardly rather pleased when they politely refused. The days passed and Tigger (for my daughter had decided that was to be his name) had now realised that he was onto a good thing and had made himself thoroughly at home. He had even become attached to Spot, our dear old Dalmatian dog.

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As the days became weeks, Tigger set about the job of seducing my husband. As soon as he sat down, he jumped onto his lap, purring and rubbing himself along his trousers. They say that love breeds love and, in spite of Len’s long-standing aversion to the feline species, it was not too long before he was stroking Tigger’s stripy head.

During the day, whatever I was doing, the little cat was always with me. If I ironed a shirt, he sat on the back of the armchair watching, with those ‘all seeing’ eyes of his. It was as if he knew a much better way of doing the job.

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When making the bed, he was stretched out in the middle of it, defying me to move him! Even as I dusted and polished, he was in the same room, his eyes following my every move.

The New Year saw Tigger from a tiny bag of bones into a sleek little 'catton', growing bigger by the day. He had completely won over Len, who had now become his obedient slave. There was nothing that cat could not do, no place that was out –of-bounds, and no delicacy that he had not tasted. He ruled the house and, granted, we gave in to his every whim.

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The winter months passed slowly, loosening its icy grip and, at last, giving away to the bright sunshine of early spring. Tigger grew and grew. People said that they had never seen a bigger cat and, many was the time, as Len and I took the dog for a walk, there our mini tiger strode – tail bolt upright, running along with us.

Poor old Spot. He had long since given up the unequal struggle for dominance. Tigger ruled him just as much as he ruled us.

As often as not, when returning from a shopping trip, I would find Tigger in the dog’s bed, and Spot stretched out on the cold kitchen lino, the look in his eyes saying ‘is nothing mine, anymore?’

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One morning, having a little salmon left over from the previous night’s supper, I spooned the remainder of the tin onto Tigger’s saucer. This was something new for him and he sniffed it apprehensively. Then he tasted a morsel – as if it were some strange foreign substance. Finding it to his liking, he wolfed down the saucer’s contents in two seconds flat and then sat looking at me, his pink tongue weaving a convoluted pattern round his mouth.

“That was lovely, Shirley”, he said. “You really know what I like!” Speechless, I just looked at him, as his tongue continued its journey around his whiskers. A few seconds passed before I found my voice. “Do you know Tig, for a second, I could have sworn you spoke!”

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His yellow eyes looked into mine, and his tongue stopped its search for the last scraps of salmon. “I did”, he said, “I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I felt that a ‘thank you’ was called for.”

I did not reply, I simply fled the kitchen and poured the last of the Christmas brandy into a glass, downing it in one enormous gulp.

That evening, after dinner, when Sharon was safely tucked up in bed, I told Len abut Tigger’s strange gift. The sound of his laughter was enough, not only to wake Sharon, but the whole street – if it had been late enough!

“Don’t be silly,” Len said, when he had got over his initial sidesplitting spasm, “Whoever heard of a cat talking? Go to bed early and tomorrow morning you will wake up fresh, laughing at yourself for being a fool!”

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The next morning, after I had hurried Len off to work and Sharon to school, I opened a tin of Tigger’s favourite food and, fortified with a large glass of Len’s homemade wine, presented Tigger with his breakfast.

“Hello Tigger,” I gaily said as if everything were perfectly normal, “Good morning, Shirley. Didn't you sleep very well? You are looking a bit rough this morning!” “It’s not surprising,” I replied, “it isn't every day you discover your cat can talk!” “Not a lot of us can… and not a lot of us want to,” said Tigger.

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Later that morning, while drinking coffee with my next-door neighbour (in her house – I didn’t feel quite at ease in my own!) I told her about Tigger. She didn’t laugh, but resting her hand on my arm, said that her dog talked to her. She didn’t want to mention it before; for fear that I would not have believed her.

We talked for quite some time and it appeared that in our area, it was fairly common for pets to speak. Indeed, just down the road, an old lady had long conversations with her canary. She then confided that, on the next road, a woman of allegedly gipsy extraction spoke with the rabbits and the squirrels that visited her in her garden, on a regular basis.

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Tigger and I often while away the hours, talking on a wide range of subjects now. I have learned all about the bad habits of field mice. The disgraceful goings-on in the garden pool, and how, if it weren’t for his diligence, we would be mad a laughing stock of by the cheeky sparrows.

Incidentally, we have now moved to a better part of town. Well, who wants to live amongst people who talk to their pets?

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Can cats really talk? No, they simply don't have the physical tools to do this. However, Tigger could speak - not with his tongue - but with his eyes. It was as if he had the capacity to use telepathy - to transfer his feelings, thoughts and aspirations to those he wanted to share this with. It felt like an unsaid connection or frequency that only he and I would know. So, it is hardly surprising to create a short story with his inspiration, is it?

If you enjoy animal reading stories, you will enjoy many articles and creative writing found right here. This is just one short story of many - why don't you check more out below! We don't just have cat stories, you know!

© 2011 Shazwellyn - This work is covered under Creative Commons License

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