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at the loss of our cats, Gran began to take me to the Museum of Comparative Zoology, which was near our house. I braved the filigreed metal stairs through which one could see from the top floor to the basement, and thus were scary. I thought I might fall through. But I’d screw up my courage and keep going because the reward at the top was great. There we’d see stuffed mammals, all kinds of them, ranging in size from a stuffed elephant and a stuffed camel to a stuffed mongoose and stuffed squirrels. I’d spend time in front of a lynx, but its neck was too thin, as it had been stuffed poorly, so it didn’t seem lifelike and wasn’t all that interesting. The cats I really went to see were the tigers, especially a Siberian tiger. To think that a cat could be so big! It was hundreds of times bigger than me, and true to the taxonomy of the time, it was mounted in attack mode with its jaws open, displaying its terrible teeth.
    It was, in short, very scary. I was frightened but also enthralled. I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t come to life and kill us because we were standing too close. But if we moved away, we couldn’t see it clearly because it was boxed in by other, less riveting exhibits, so we’d go back to face it again. Scared as I was, I was so entranced by that tiger that I had to see it at least once a week, and I’d stand in front of it until forced to leave, frozen in place with awe and fear like a bird hypnotized by a snake.
    I began to have nightmares. When I was forced to go to bed (always, it seemed, in broad daylight), I’d imagine that once it got dark, a tiger, that tiger, would climb up the side of the house and come in the window. Sometimes the wind would blow leaves against the house. The scratching sound, I knew, was the tiger’s claws, climbing.
    I’d call my mother. She’d sit beside my bed. I’d ask her over and over if anything would hurt me in the dark. She’d tell me over and over that nothing would hurt me. This went on for months, if I remember rightly, taking much of my mother’s valuable time. Yet during those months I’m not sure she knew that the danger I envisioned was a tiger. Often enough people don’t want to name the terrors that haunt them, and I think that happened to me, because Gran and I kept going to the museum, and with every visit my fears would be refreshed.
    I remembered this clearly years later, when I had two small children of my own and they too had fears about a tiger. Having lost none of my fascination with the cat family, I had read to them about tigers. But I didn’t have my mother’s time or patience and wanted to erase their fears as quickly as I could. So when one of my kids would call to me that a tiger was under the bed, I’d go in and look at it. “Goodness me,” I’d say. “That’s a tiger, sure enough. Why don’t I take him to the kitchen and see if he wants some milk?” Then with great effort I’d drag him out. “He’s scared,” I’d say to explain his reluctance. When he was out I’d pick him up, reassuring him as I did so. But he was really heavy. It took all my strength. My knees would buckle, and huffing and puffing, I’d stagger with him out of the room. My children thought all this was exceptionally funny. They’d laugh, and their fears would vanish.
    My mother must have sat beside my bed hundreds of times, reassuring me about the danger in the dark. I only had to drag the tiger from under my children’s beds two or three times, and after that he stopped coming. So I recommend the method.
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    The first book I wrote was called
Shege The Tiger
. I’m not sure when I wrote it because the date on the cover is “Tuesday.” I signed it Miss E. Marshall, illustrated it myself, and bound its pages between cardboard covers held together with O rings. I do remember why I wrote it, though. At the time, I had no