The Tiger Whisperer

Chapter 1

None of his usual tricks worked: arching his back and hopping sideways; darting away to get the chase-trip-kill instinct going; even a hunk of chicken gizzard dangled on the fishing pole toy. Pinhead, the mountain lion, continued his playful trek through the big cat refuge until Jared Montaine sighed and said, Dammit, go get the catch net.

I’m really sorry. He just slipped out. Billy Bosworth, the volunteer who had been walking Pinhead, wiped the sweat off his freckled face. I’ve been chasing him for fifteen minutes.

It happens. He knows he can back out of the harness and so he waits until you walk in front of him. Don’t worry about it. We’ll get him. Jared tugged the leash from Billy’s shoulder. Next time, though, call one of us right away. We don’t want him to have fun like this; it’s the wrong kind of positive reinforcement.

Billy headed off to the refuge office, and Jared followed the under-sized mountain lion as the cougar slinked towards the small mobile home that housed the refrigerated meat. Pinhead, so named because his skull was noticeably smaller than his body, loped ahead of Jared, his tail in that arched upside-down U that indicated play behavior in felines.

You little turd; you’re having a good time.

Pinhead dashed up the pine tree next to the trailer, hugging the tree with his de-clawed paws, scrabbling for a hold, and then leaped onto its slanted roof. Jared was in luck; the refuge truck was parked next to the trailer. He sped up his pace, jumped up on the truck’s hood, then its paneled roof. It was only a four-foot leap over to the trailer’s roof. He landed on it with a thump and a smile. Pinhead turned to face him, back arched, lips drawn back.

Ah hah! I have you now, my pretty, Jared cooed. Come here, you turdhead, yes, you are a big turd, come here, Pinny, Pinny, Pinny! He forced his voice to go high-pitched.

Pinhead plopped down on the warm metal roof and flipped over on his back.

Jared lay down on his own back in the shade of the pine tree. He ‘mmwwrrowed’ and twisted against the roof’s soft asphalt. It scratched at him a little, but he ignored it. Pinhead rolled over and looked at him, ears pricked up, yellow-green eyes alert.

Pinny, Pinny, come here, you little shithead. Come here. Again soft-voiced and lilting.

Pinhead ‘mmwwwrrowed’ and ambled over to Jared. He licked Jared’s hand, then lay down next to him, butt towards Jared’s face, his thick tail tickling Jared’s nose. Jared let the cat get quiet. He ran one hand up Pinhead’s flank, soothing, his hands gentle on the cougar’s thick pelt, feeling the sturdy muscles beneath the lush fur. He rubbed Pinhead’s belly, knelt over the cat, and clenched Pinhead’s front paws with his hands. Jared pressed his forehead against Pinhead’s and caught a whiff of the cat’s meat-fouled breath. Pinhead pressed back against him, the pads of his paws dirty and rough, a rumbling purr thick in his throat.

Come on, big guy, let’s get this leash back on you. And would you please stop doing this? Pinhead sat up and let Jared fit the harness over his head and chest. Pinhead’s rough, pink tongue licked at Jared’s sweaty neck. He grasped Pinhead’s skull, put a smacking kiss on the cat’s broad nose. Yes, I love you, too. You ready to go back home?

Pinhead chittered and they rose together. Billy huffed up to them, catch net in hand, just as they jumped off the truck.

* * * *

Just after noon, a human scream rang through the refuge. Jared was used to screams: a cougar’s piercing shriek, a leopard’s mournful call, the ratchet and spit of a bobcat. But a human scream only meant trouble and more trouble, he didn’t need.

His stomach clenched as he jogged past a cougar cage, arms swinging. Running always stirred up the cats. The cougars, Rasputin and Rhiannon, padded along with him as he went past, then they sat and pressed their faces to the wire. One of them trilled.

Later, kids. Jared’s fingers trailed against the cold chain link. His walkie-talkie buzzed again on his belt.

Peter Alston, his assistant, voice shaky. Uh, Jared, you coming?

On my way, at the lions now. The scream again, this time doubled through the little microphone. He lengthened his stride and the agitated lions jogged with him from inside their habitat.

Wild cats rushed to their cage fronts, excited, as he moved past them: tawny lions and cougars, the grey-tufted lynxes, spotted leopards, a jaguar.

The tour was at the rear of the compound, a half-dozen people huddled in front of Tasha’s cage. The black leopard snarled, her beaten jaw permanently askew. She paced behind the chain-link fence, tail twitching, growl ugly and deep. Seeing that annoyed Jared. Of all the cats, Tasha’s story was the worst; he hated seeing her upset.

The group members wore varied expressions of irritation and sympathy. Their eyes widened as Jared arrived. The solid strength that had once made basemen blanch as he tore across a diamond at them was still present: he was a tall man, his shoulders broad, his chest deep from the physical labor of managing his refuge.

A chunky girl about five feet tall flailed about, arms swinging, face balled up and red. She was thick-bodied and solid; her screams set Jared’s teeth on edge.

Her mother looked up at Jared. I’m sorry, she’s an exceptional child. She doesn’t understand why she can’t pet the cats. I thought she’d be all right. I’m sorry but…

I. Want. The. Kkkkiiittttiiieeessss! The girl hit her mother and she was big enough to hurt, nearly chest-high to Jared.

His attitude smoothed from irritation to tempered sympathy as he saw the girl’s flattened face and inset eyes. Down syndrome. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she slammed her feet on the ground.

Tasha paced in her cage, her tail lashing against the chain link, dark as a dream.

What’s her name? Jared waved Peter and the group on.

Sally, her mother answered. Sally, baby? Please, calm down, honey, please.

Jared moved closer. One of Sally’s fists caught him in the neck; it stung. He grabbed her hands and kept them still. The girl squealed and Jared caught a whiff of her sweat. She puffed and strained against him. Sally, listen, girl, the kitties are getting upset. Quiet now, you’re being too loud. Sally!

The girl struggled on until Jared chuffed. The vocalization was throaty and deep—a chunky huff of air, powered on the exhale—and mimicked the way tigers greeted those they considered friends. He chuffed again, louder, pulling it from his belly and into her ear.

Sally went still and her dull eyes gazed into Jared’s, rapt. Do that again!

I will if you promise to be quiet, okay? Jared smiled.

Sally nodded and took Jared’s hand.

I’m sorry. I thought that she’d be able to understand, but… The mother’s voice trailed away in embarrassment.

It’s all right, we’ve got it covered. He moved them away from Tasha. The black leopard glared at them, green eyes cold, whiskers twitching. Tasha opened her mouth, revealing a broken incisor tooth.

Sally held up his left hand, showing her mother Jared’s truncated pinkie finger, gone just past his first knuckle. Look, Mommy! Stubby pinkie. Stubby!

Yes, honey, I see that. Her mother pulled Sally closer and eyed the cages.

The cats paced alongside them as they moved through the refuge, alert, aware that a crippled member of the herd moved in their midst. Jared saw dilated pupils and whiskers thrust forward from every cage.

The cats knew.

I’m sorry for the trouble, we could have just walked back ourselves…

We don’t allow people to walk around unescorted, refuge policy. Jared’s eyes focused on Sultan’s cage as they moved past the tiger habitat. This is why we don’t allow kids younger than fourteen in here. Their voices are too high-pitched and they move like prey, quick and jerky. You and I see a cute kid, but the cats see—dinner.

He Jared spotted Sultan, the seven-hundred-fifty-pound Siberian tiger, crouched in knee-high grass, a few yards back from his cage fencing, perfectly camouflaged by his brown and orange stripes. The grass shifted subtly and Jared knew the tiger was scuttling towards the girl. He wouldn’t rush the fence; tigers counted on camouflage and ambush to make their kills. Sultan’s head didn’t move but his golden eyes watched them walk past.

Jared doubted that Sally and her mother even saw the tiger.

At the gift shop, Jared tugged down a near-life-sized cougar doll for Sally, one of the more expensive items. The girl quieted as she kissed and petted the doll. It felt good to let go of his irritation with them; the mother was trying to do her best.

They moved outside into the balmy October sun and stood on the mulched walkway. Jared noticed Sally’s mother eyeing the weed-choked lily garden. The tiger specimen canna lilies leaned against the mismatched lattice of the porch; they were still in decent shape, but the smaller tiger day lilies at the front of the bed lay on the ground, trampled and dry. No one had watered them; Jared worried more about watering the cats. It was Juliana who had babied the plants and flowers when she had lived here—and now she was gone. Jared sighed and turned away from the flowers.

Thank you, you’ve been very kind. And I’m sorry for the trouble. Sally’s mother ruffled her daughter’s hair.

You didn’t get the full tour, I’ll give you your money back, Jared offered.

Oh, no, don’t! You keep it. No offense, but it looks like this place could use it. Here, take this for the toy. She glanced around the site, eyeing the scruffy perimeter fencing that leaned in places, the trailers that needed paint, the overgrown vines crawled over some of the cage fences. A beat-up old truck with faded tiger stripes and jungle leaves was parked next to one of the trailers, its refuge logo chipped away. A thin layer of pine needles lay over the parking area but it wasn’t really covering the sand any longer. She tugged forty dollars from her purse. Please.

I definitely won’t turn it down. Thank you. And tell your friends about us. Donations accepted anytime.

* * * *

Jared raised the meat cleaver and whacked it down on the butcher-block table. The cow leg split with a wet thunk. Droplets of blood and bits of flesh spattered on his sweaty shirt.

Three more ten-pounders, then it’s the sixers. Camille Petz spoke from the end of the metal prep table. She slipped meat servings onto metal trays and stacked them on the rollaway efficiently, her solid arms bulging as she worked. She was blocky as a linebacker; she earned a good living as a personal trainer and spent as much time at the refuge as on the job. With her dark hair and eyes, she could pass for Jared’s sister. Camille had made it clear, though, that her feelings for Jared weren’t sisterly.

Three tens, coming up. Jared reached into the defrost barrel, filled with meat. The red water was icy cold on his gloved hands.

The meathouse, as they called it, was a single wide trailer modified for use as an industrial kitchen. Peter and Jared had torn down all the interior walls and with Little Steve’s construction help, brought in a commercial grade freezer, a walk-in cooler, and a central line of prep tables. One wall held industrial sinks, another cabinets for food bowls, supplements and treats. They replaced the cheap vinyl floor every year but the trailer was permeated with the smell of meat and blood.

The door to the prep trailer opened and Peter stepped inside with a long-haired young man. Jared, this is David Evans, the reporter from Tampa Bay Alternative.com.

Jared waved him forward with the cleaver and a smile. We’ll shake later. Come on in.

They exchanged introductions and hellos as Peter and Camille continued divvying up the meat. Jared lopped off hunks of flesh, weighed it, called it out and laid it on a metal tray. The others added chicken necks and gizzards to some. A sprinkle of powder, the yellow of bone marrow, went over the meat. A vitamin supplement—Professional Grade Feline Plus. Peter made notes on a clipboard as they worked.

Camille shoved pills into some chicken parts and then stabbed a red marker into the meat to mark it as dosed. As the trays were completed, she and Peter stacked them on a metal rollaway.

Jared had started doing interviews back in college, talking to sports reporters about baseball, and had easily made the transition to doing publicity for the refuge. How long you been in Florida?

David answered without looking at him, gazing at the hunks of meat on the table. Just three weeks. You’re only my second assignment since I started with the site.

Where did you go to school? Jared asked. The reporter was young, maybe twenty-five; couldn’t be that long out of college.

Indiana University.

No kidding. I grew up in Bloomington.

Cool, dude. David looped his own curly hair behind one ear and a row of studs piercing his upper ear gleamed in the trailer’s fluorescent light. He tugged out a small tablet and tapped the recorder. Jared noticed a trio of tattoos on the reporter’s slender left arm.

I’m officially middle-aged, permanently past cool. What the hell happened?

We should get into it. David clicked on his mini recorder. Since we’re talking meat, how many pounds do they eat in a week?

Depends on the cat. We can usually estimate it at about five percent of their body weight, sometimes less. So, ocelots will eat less than a pound a day; a cougar will eat about eight, and a tiger, around twenty-eight pounds. They eat less in the summer; their metabolism slows way down, especially in Florida.

How much does that cost you?

Runs about twenty-five grand a year. This is denatured meat from wholesalers. It’s return from supermarkets; they just dye it blue and charge us about thirty-five cents a pound. Plus vet bills on top of that, supplies, maintenance for the habitats.

And just you and Peter are paid staffers? Everyone else is volunteer?

Yep. We’ve got Dr. Wilson onsite now. She’s doing work funded by the Institute of Carnivore Studies. That’s helped bolster the cash flow for the last couple months. But she’s leaving, this week in fact. Got a new study in India. He cleavered through a side of beef ribs, and the blade stuck in the butcher block.

Peter stepped over. I can finish the rest, boss.

Thanks. Let me change here and we’ll go feed Sultan. Give you an up close look at a carnivore in action. He stepped over to the triple sink, and tugged off his shirt and gloves, then started washing down his arms and chest with care.

Is that scar from an attack? David asked.

Jared soaped off his left bicep; it had two long furrows of raised scar tissue. Nah, this one was just clumsiness. An ocelot was playing in a tree above me, got too confident and fell on me. He clawed me all the way down. Jared lifted his arm to show where the claw marks continued down his left side, dipping into his jeans. Messy but not fatal.

You ever been bitten?

Sure, just nips and scratches though, nothing serious. If you handle these cats long enough, you’re gonna get bitten. Just a fact of life. But to be safe, you don’t want to smell like blood when you’re feeding these cats. If David noticed Jared’s half pinkie finger, he didn’t ask about it. Most people assumed he’d lost it to a cat.

David nodded, his face a little green.

You okay?

Yes, this is just a little, ah, overwhelming. I’m vegetarian.

"Well, they’re not. You don’t want to see them when we get in some roadkill, fresh meat. The DOT brings us deer sometimes, a hog last fall. Man, they go nuts, throwing it in the air, playing chase with it." Jared toweled off and pulled on a refuge T-shirt, the logo faded.

I’ll wait for the movie on that. David managed a weak smile.

Come on. Jared grabbed an industrial-sized dishwasher’s pan, twenty pounds of meat stacked in it.

Once outside, David took a deep breath and looked a little more comfortable. You’ve run this place for over ten years?

I walked in one day looking for five extra-credit points for a science class and never really left. Got hooked on the cats and came on full-time after college.

They walked past the cougar cages, the lynxes, and the fishing cats. Most of the cats were already eating, bodies sprawled on the ground as they gnawed steadily at their food. Jared pointed. That’s one of the few differences between domestic cats and wild cats. Domestic cats crouch down to eat; the wild ones lie down.

Interesting. I’ll note that in the article. Any other differences worth mentioning?

Not many. A domestic cat usually waits ’til the prey is dead to start eating; wild ones just dig in once it’s down on the ground. Other than that, a cat is a cat.

Peter said that he’s a good handler but you’ve got something special, a connection with the cats.

Jared shrugged. Maybe so, they definitely seem to like me. But I can never quite explain it. It’s more than just reading their body language, it’s like being in their heads, seeing the world from their perspective.

Handling his cats was more than understanding what the twitch of a whisker or dilation of a pupil meant. Their eyes met his, the steady, unblinking gazes of apex predators, and a connection just pinged in his soul. He loved them but he didn’t humanize them, didn’t believe that they were people in fur. He instinctively treated them as cubs, using his voice, eye contact, and physical expression to establish dominance and gain their respect.

He’d never been afraid of a big cat.

Did you have cats growing up? David asked.

Just a couple of barn cats up in Indiana, but I didn’t pay much attention to them. We had dogs after we sold the farm and moved down here.

They passed the African lions. On the rear side of their habitat, Jared saw Camille and Peter edging the trays through the food slide, then quickly backing away. Lions were the most territorial about their cages and food, more so than other cats. Jared thought it was because lions lived in prides and had to constantly fight for their place at a kill. Just two years before, a zookeeper at Busch Gardens lost part of her arm while feeding lions; a big male had managed to drag her gloved hand into the cage and taken off her arm at the elbow. Plop, just like that. Jared had given a long lecture about the incident to all his volunteers; they listened solemnly.

David shuffled his notes. And did you buy this place after college?

No, when Mrs. Clifton died, she left me this place. Her son never liked the cats.

And how did she get started with big cats?

Back in the sixties, her husband was a stunt man for some of the Tarzan movies. He ended up keeping a couple of the lions they had on set and it started from there. They got licensed, they bought this acreage, and people started bringing them cats.

The son—he didn’t mind not getting his parent’s property?

He got all the stocks and bonds so he’s a happy camper.

Jared waved over to Little Steve, squatting on the ground as he worked on the plumbing lines. Little Steve, six foot six and three hundred pounds, was Jared’s best friend besides Peter. A long-time volunteer, he also served on the refuge board and was generous with his time and construction expertise. He ran his own remodeling company and most of the leftovers from his jobs ended up on the refuge: fencing, cabinets, flooring and now, plumbing. New USDA regulations required that handlers used antibacterial soap before touching an animal, so Jared was having water lines run out to all the habitats. It would make watering and cleaning the cats easier as well, but it was another expense.

David flipped through his papers. Let me check my numbers here. You’ve got one hundred twenty six cats. Of those, over sixty are the smaller breeds; the civets, the servals, the jungle cats, the sand cats, the fishers, ocelots, bobcats. Twenty-eight lynxes, twelve cougars, six leopards, one Florida panther, eight jaguars, four lions, and two tigers. Have I got that right?

Yep. They’re called fishing cats by the way, not fishers. Jared nodded, pleased that David had taken the time to research their facility. And that Leon, Little Steve’s son, was updating their website so efficiently. The teenager was thrilled to be their webmaster; after Juliana had left, Jared didn’t have the energy or interest to learn about maintaining a website. Other than a quick proofread to make sure Leon wasn’t lapsing into textspeak, Jared let Leon run it.

Around them, pine trees sighed over the big cats’ homes. The cage sizes varied: the smaller cats had cages about ten feet high and fifteen by fifteen. The larger the cats, the larger the cages. Every cage had a permanent den—sometimes a concrete pipe that Steve had salvaged, sometimes a donated dogloo—and wire gauge fencing combined with chain link. The Cliftons had simply built cages around standing trees and Jared continued the habit of not clearing the land completely. Hardy azaleas, some ten feet high, served as cover in some cages; in February the ocelots and servals had their private flower gardens to enjoy.

What’s with the tops, Jared? How come some of these have lids? The majority of the cages had chain link ceilings installed over them to prevent escapes. But a half dozen larger cages had chain link angled inward at forty-five degrees; the larger cat breeds were too heavy to scale the barrier.

Any cage more than a thousand square feet can have the angled barrier. Smaller than that and they have to have the tied down top. USDA regulations.

And here we are. Stay out here, he ordered and stepped over the rope barrier used to keep the public away from actual contact with the cages. We only give them food through the slot. We don’t want them to associate a human in their cage with a meal.

Jared maneuvered through the lockout cage door, shut it, then put the pan down. The tiger wasn’t in sight. Sultan! Sultan!

Jared knocked on the chain link with a stick. The tapping rang through the habitat. Jared’s eyes scanned the cage. Sultan’s cage had a small stand of pine trees at the rear that provided shade and cover and clawing posts. Many afternoons the tiger slept among the cool pines.

Jared tapped again and the tiger came out of the trees, running, not a lazy lope, but a full run, tail up, mouth open, over seven hundred pounds of wild cat. The tiger slowed and turned, his coat glowing sunset orange and brown. He ran past the food slot, kicking up leaves and grass, turned and ran back, playing now, tail curved down, his face in a cheerful tiger grin, teeth exposed, pink tongue out. The tiger swatted a bowling ball, sent it flying and he bounced after it, sideways, back arched, and swatted it again. Sultan finally stopped and pressed himself against the chain link next to Jared, chuffing happily. The smell of dirt after a fresh rain wafted up to Jared: Sultan-smell, clean and earthy and real.

Jesus Christ. David’s voice shook. He stepped back from the barrier.

Beautiful, isn’t he?

He’s huge!

He’s a big boy. Aren’t you, you handsome beastlet? Jared’s voice turned into a warm coo.

The tiger chuffed up at him, gaze direct and clear. Jared tried to see Sultan with an outsider’s eyes. Sultan’s back was waist high to Jared, nearly four feet tall at his shoulders. His head was twice as large as a bowling ball and his ears looked absurdly small set on his skull though they were as large as the palm of a hand. His eyes were deep golden, almost orange, and they were lined with black, that characteristic feline trait that gave them all a seductively feminine appearance. His black lips contrasted with the healthy pink of his gums and the ivory of his five-inch-long canines. Sultan’s tail tapered from as thick as Jared’s forearm to a two-fingers width point. His lush fur was elegantly striped, brown and orange on top with rich cream down his chest and belly.

My God, I’ve never seen anything so scary in my life, David said, his voice quavering.

They’re impressive animals, aren’t they?

That’s putting it mildly. Amazing.

Watch this. Jared held up the stick again, made sure Sultan focused on it. He tossed the stick over the fence and said, Place.

Sultan trotted over to the hunk of wood and sat down next to it.

Jared bent and plopped the meat through on its tray. Sultan’s whiskers quivered forward and he licked his mouth with an audible slurp. When Jared had the food door closed again, he spoke once more. Release.

Sultan rose and was on the meat in a second. His rough tongue sandpapered over the flesh and bits of skin came off. His teeth broke through the bones and ribs and his four-inch-long claws clutched the meat in a crushing grip.

He’s not exactly wolfing it down, David observed.

He usually doesn’t. He’s never had to fight for food so he takes his time.

Sultan rumbled, not exactly a growl but a thick