Washington, D.C., April 1, 2016 — This morning, in front of a crowd of hundreds of journalists from around the world, Fluffykins D. Tiger, captive pet tiger and surprisingly brilliant orator, delivered a stirring press conference about his escape from captivity into a suburban neighborhood—and the media frenzy that followed.[teaserbreak]
“Members of the press,” he purred, “I thank you for joining me today here in our nation’s capitol, a place imbued with the values of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, to discuss a very real and serious problem. All over this nation, wild animals just like me are being made to suffer in unnatural, unkind, and dangerous captivity. I want to explain my recent escape from my backyard enclosure on Maple Street.”
“I was taken from my mother at only three months old,” he snarled, “and sold to a human woman named Sandra who has a 1980s haircut and a seemingly endless collection of polyester sweat suits.”
Then, Fluffykins D. Tiger removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, remembering a painful memory. “My early life was dominated by paid photo-ops, where I was passed around like a prop while Sandra raked in the money. Was I adorable? Absolutely! But, no one ever asked me if the camera flash hurt my eyes. And, to add insult to injury, the photos always managed to capture my bad side!”
“My life on Maple Street was unbearable,” he growled. “In my natural habitat, in India, I would have had hundreds of miles to roam and all sorts of delicious prey to eat: chital, sambar, gaur. Meanwhile, at my ‘home’ here in the U.S.,” Fluffykins D. Tiger explained, as he made air quotes with his large and terrifying paws, “is barely big enough for me to stretch my legs, and I’m lucky if I get a few skinny chickens to eat each day. I can never run, no less walk, and I am bored, lonely, hungry, and want to feel grass under my feet.”
“And,” he continued, orange in the face, “Fluffykins D. Tiger; that’s not even my real name! In the jungles of India, I am known as Claw the Fearsome and rule on high!”
Leaning over the podium, his mighty claws digging into the wood, he said, “And so, when my ‘owner,’ Sandra, walked into my meager enclosure last Thursday, calling to me in that insipid baby voice she uses (‘Come eat the chicken-wicken!’), I slipped out of my cage and into the neighborhood. While it was better to feel more free, this place looked nothing like India. Children screamed at the sight of me; sirens blared as I ran past; cars were everywhere; and the blades of the police helicopter whipped in the wind. It was almost as though a tiger doesn’t belong in a suburban neighborhood. It was scary and dangerous for me, and for everyone in sight.”
“While I regret the obvious panic caused by my escape,” Fluffykins D. Tiger roared, “I make no apologies for it. I should have never been kept in a backyard to begin with. I had no choice. And, hey; tigers gonna tiger.”
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