My father loosed the remainder of his pack of hounds. They scented my tiger’s blood and attacked, latching onto his hinds and neck. I swung out with the waddy, my tiger flinching as the dogs came back senselessly. The smallest of the pack bit into my tiger’s throat and I thought the fight must end, but my father had another plan. From within a tied sack he released my tiger’s mate and she rushed to join the fray. Together we fought back my father’s dogs.
The earth was scorched around us, the air close and musty, carrying the fresh smell of blood. My father held his rifle tightly as I fought for my tiger’s survival. Nothing mattered but the fight, until the rapid c***k of rifle-shot cut the air.
My tiger’s mate fell, writhing on the ground. In her slow death the animal raised a dust-cloud
