“April is kind of a bad cat.”
That’s what I was told early on by someone who had worked around April for years. And it was true. April was not a nice tiger. Though boy howdy, was she a pretty cat, and she knew it. Of all the cats I’ve worked with here, April is the one I least wanted to find out they’d learned to teleport through their enclosure wall and meet face to face with nothing between us. Fortunately, she never figured out a way. She did, however, watch the edge of her enclosure like a hawk, and prowled it like, well, a tiger. Just waiting for someone to stumble in the winter muck and fall against the chain link where she could hook them with her claws, or to get fingers in range, or drape the hose where she could grab it and kill it like the evil water-filled snake it was.
The thing is, it wasn’t April’s job to be nice. It was her job to be a tiger. She was the cat that reminded us continually, just in case we weren’t already sure of it, that we are here for them, not the other way around. Seeing her smug expression while she sat up on her box was enough proof of that; she loved watching us mow or do other landscaping work in her open area while she lounged.
April was our cranky old schoolteacher, the grouchy neighbor who almost never had anything nice to say. But like either of those, when she did give a positive reaction, it meant something. A chuff from April meant a lot. Her sister Star is a sweet tiger, but isn’t really interested in being social for more than a few moments. On the other hand, once I knew her, and she knew me, April would patiently sit down next to me while I read a book, or watched a video, or just enjoyed the evening breeze. I know there was always a part of her that hoped I’d lean against the fence or put something where she could reach it, but there was also a part of her that grudgingly wanted to be social. And forging that sort of bond with a cranky old apex predator is really something special. It has been a privilege to take care of her during her sunset years.
So thank you, April. I’m sorry I never fed you any of those fingers you wanted so badly, but I still need them to take care of your sister and the rest of your neighbors. I promise when we meet again, I’ll hold the hose for you so you can bite the water stream the way you like to.
Goodbye, April.
—Ren
