A Tiger and Her Strays

Her name said it all—Susan Tiger.

Susan is a common female name that means “Graceful Lily” in Hebrew and is also most likely the name of the nice lady sitting at the office front desk. Susan Tiger was neither graceful nor Jewish and would be mortified to be called either.

Then there’s Tiger.

She was asked on several occasions on how to spell it and she’d dim her eyes before muttering, “Like the animal, obviously.” Susan Tiger was white suburbia’s sweet lady next door before she opened her mouth with a snarky comment or wild story.

In the winter, she strutted around in a mustard yellow trench coat, the ends trailing past her five-foot frame and dragging across the snow. My mom and I could spot her charging towards us, her hair flying in wild blonde grey curls that frizzed around her head in a triangular shape. Behind her and the mustard coat were usually at least three dogs.

She loved animals more than she loved people. A few years ago, she carried an injured bird in a shoebox on her way home from Penn Station. She whispered to it, cooing for the creature to calm down. The passenger next to her asked, “So do you talk to your box every day?” She thought she could use a little more space and so, smiled before saying, “Only on Wednesdays.” As she had hoped for, the man moved to the seat across the aisle.

Susan came home to eight dogs, twelve cats, three rabbits, two daughters, and no husband. All her pets and one of her daughters were rescued. Most of the dogs were from the pound, but there were at least two strays that she literally stopped her car in the middle of the road to bring home. Her altruism landed her with two vicious dogs that needed to be locked in cages and walked with muzzles. Then there was a feral cat overpopulation on her block and what Susan called a “senseless killing epidemic” by her neighbors. A cat had been sleeping under a car to escape the summer sun. The driver pulled away and the cat kept sleeping. Squish.

After that incident, Susan made sure to honk every time before she started her car to save cat lives and annoy neighbors. When the neighbors petitioned for pet control, Susan led a one-woman mission to catch as many as she could, build a shelter in her garage, and obliterate any evidence of a feral cat infestation.

She spent thousands of dollars a month on pet food, cleaning supplies, and accessories. Susan would complain how she couldn’t afford the costs and would constantly look for eager pet owners. Whenever one came along, she’d shrug them away, claiming they weren’t competent enough to provide a happy home.

In many ways, I was one of Susan Tiger’s strays. I was best friends with her daughter Samantha and naturally, would go over several days a week. When it was time to walk their biting dogs, I’d wait in the attic next to the Christmas presents that Susan had already wrapped months in advance. I knew one of them was mine. My parents often worked late and Susan always let me stay for dinner. Before long, I was brought along for weekend road trips and shows in the city. For our high school graduation, Susan ordered a giant ice-cream cake that read, “Congratulations Samantha & Tiffany!”, looping me into the occasion without a second thought.

All Susan wanted in her life was a child before it was too late. She tried and tried before giving birth to her first and youngest daughter at the age of forty-two. Samantha. She’d hoped the father would stay but knew she’d be happy enough with a beautiful healthy baby. By the age of six, Samantha proposed a complicated dilemma in that all she wanted was an older sister. And so, Susan arranged a trip to Russia, searching for another daughter. The two had to take what used to be a World War II bomber plane to the small city. At one point, Samantha needed an inhaler and Susan climbed into the storage, searching through the dark for the right suitcase and right compartment for that tiny inhaler while secretly convinced that the floor would open and plunge her into Russia’s abyss.

The journey did not slow once they reached the orphanage. A small boy approached her, speaking rapid Russian. The translator explained that he promised to clean her whole house with a toothbrush if she took him home. Susan paused for several moments, staring at the emaciated child before forcing herself to look away and keep walking. Several of the orphans looked silently at Samantha’s perfect braids and Mary Jane shoes with curious round eyes. Susan wanted to take them all away from this hellhole and give them a home. She squeezed Samantha’s tiny hands as they were urged to keep walking. Statistics revealed that most of the orphans would not live past the age of fifteen if they weren’t adopted. Keep walking. The translator continued to ramble the complex adoption process that Susan had no heart to hear.

Visas.

Immigration Laws.

Immersion Programs.

Stop.

Susan paused when she reached the small child in front of her. Elena. Elena was the young girl she’d been matched with. She was nine years old and under forty pounds. Even though Elena was three years older than Samantha, she stood at the same height with an even tinier frame. Her parents abandoned her when she was only five and she had never tasted milk in her life. Before the translator could finish explaining,

Susan knew she’d take her home.