Winter was an easy time of year for a Siberian tiger to pad leisurely through, if they wanted to. Snowfall and brisk breezes made it especially so, whether by giving them an excuse to wrap up cosy at home or by providing an enriching canvas of ice and drift to amble through in the wee hours of the morning, breaking the first trails in glistening white fields.
There hadn't been very much snowfall lately, though.
Which was fine; it wasn't like the Siberians needed snow for survival. Really, Jack just liked running out into the nearest open space to make snow angels and build snowmen and maybe write his name in bold yellow under the nearest tree - to satiate the territorial urges, of course. Not because it was simple childish fun or anything.
...okay yeah, it totally was for that reason.
A little like getting up late in the day to toddle off out into the city to grab a dozen cookies for breakfast - something that wasn't exactly good for anyone, but that in wintertime evoked nostalgia, memories of sitting under the Christmas tree with a cookie in each hand, cartoons buzzing away on the television while presents were passed around.
Not being home was one of those strange paradoxes. It felt good to stretch the legs and move on out into bigger, newer spaces. But it was hard to be away from the security of home.
Maybe as he aged it would get easier. Out of the awkward puberty-adjacent phase of clinging to what was familiar, needing his mother to show him how to operate in the big wide world. Maybe he'd never get over the desire to have a connection to Old Territory.
It didn't seem like a relevant stream of thoughts as he bounced out of the bakery with a dozen chocolate chip cookies tucked under his arm, but it was distracting enough for the tiger to zone out his immediate environment for a moment, woollen scarf still imbued with the scents of fresh baked bread, vanilla, cinnamon and seasonal fruit. He almost didn't notice brushing against someone on their way in - out? in? - and the way the ground below suddenly felt uneven.
...had he just stepped on someone's foot?
Light, sound, ambience and activity flooded back into the tiger's brain as he turned, lifting his feet comically high, scampering back like a cat with a sticker stuck on its paws.
“Sorry, I didn't--” he began, turning so sharply that his bag of cookies tore open at the bottom, spraying at least six of them across his turning path and onto the ground below. Thinking nothing of it, he crouched to gather them up, swiftly stuffing the safe treats into a vacant pocket. “--I didn't see you, I'm so sorry--” Almost as though to shut himself up, he stuffed one of the cookies from the floor into his mouth with a sheepish smile at the stranger.
Followed by a thoughtful pause.
And a fistful of crumbling concrete cookies offered out to the stranger as an olive branch.
Real orange cat hours.
There hadn't been very much snowfall lately, though.
Which was fine; it wasn't like the Siberians needed snow for survival. Really, Jack just liked running out into the nearest open space to make snow angels and build snowmen and maybe write his name in bold yellow under the nearest tree - to satiate the territorial urges, of course. Not because it was simple childish fun or anything.
...okay yeah, it totally was for that reason.
A little like getting up late in the day to toddle off out into the city to grab a dozen cookies for breakfast - something that wasn't exactly good for anyone, but that in wintertime evoked nostalgia, memories of sitting under the Christmas tree with a cookie in each hand, cartoons buzzing away on the television while presents were passed around.
Not being home was one of those strange paradoxes. It felt good to stretch the legs and move on out into bigger, newer spaces. But it was hard to be away from the security of home.
Maybe as he aged it would get easier. Out of the awkward puberty-adjacent phase of clinging to what was familiar, needing his mother to show him how to operate in the big wide world. Maybe he'd never get over the desire to have a connection to Old Territory.
It didn't seem like a relevant stream of thoughts as he bounced out of the bakery with a dozen chocolate chip cookies tucked under his arm, but it was distracting enough for the tiger to zone out his immediate environment for a moment, woollen scarf still imbued with the scents of fresh baked bread, vanilla, cinnamon and seasonal fruit. He almost didn't notice brushing against someone on their way in - out? in? - and the way the ground below suddenly felt uneven.
...had he just stepped on someone's foot?
Light, sound, ambience and activity flooded back into the tiger's brain as he turned, lifting his feet comically high, scampering back like a cat with a sticker stuck on its paws.
“Sorry, I didn't--” he began, turning so sharply that his bag of cookies tore open at the bottom, spraying at least six of them across his turning path and onto the ground below. Thinking nothing of it, he crouched to gather them up, swiftly stuffing the safe treats into a vacant pocket. “--I didn't see you, I'm so sorry--” Almost as though to shut himself up, he stuffed one of the cookies from the floor into his mouth with a sheepish smile at the stranger.
Followed by a thoughtful pause.
And a fistful of crumbling concrete cookies offered out to the stranger as an olive branch.
Real orange cat hours.