The Tiger

The tiger had been a captive for as long as he could remember. There had been a succession of humans who came and threw his twice-a-day chunk of meat on the floor of his cage, and a succession of cages, each slightly larger than the last. But one thing never changed: he was inside the cage, and the humans were out. He thought and thought but could not remember a time before the cage. Perhaps he had even been born in a cage; he was not totally sure, but in the absence of any other memories, he could only assume it was true.

The tiger could not remember his mother or any siblings, although he knew others of his kind were also in cages near to his. He could not see them, but he could smell them, and he heard their roars. I'm hungry! Roared one. Where is my damn meat?! I will tear you to pieces and eat you, you fur-less and tiny human! Give me my meat!
Another big cat, a female, moaned low under her breath all day. She was mourning for her home, far away in a jungle, and the cubs she had left behind. All day she lamented, a low, sad rumble.

The tiger was bored. Deeply bored. Boredom exhausts a body. Pacing his cage, back and forth, perking up only when the meat came, tired him out. Plus the female's sadness was depressing. It made the tiger wonder where he came from. A jungle? He had no memories of anything but the cage. There was not much to live for, but the tiger did not have enough will power to starve himself to death.