He isn’t thinking about the future or what could be improved upon. He’s existing solely in the present, with the soft, slightly lumpy thing beneath him – the mattress and the balled up sheets, if he knew what they were called – the solid warmth of the two-legs next to him, and his hand combing through fur in the most relaxing of ways. It’s not so bad, being like this, he thinks. It’s not the forest. It’s not running and jumping and climbing. There’s no game, no window, no endless sky. But it’s warm and dry and for the moment, comfortable.

The tiger’s eyes close as he lets out a mighty yawn, then leaves them closed as he rolls further onto his side, sets his head down, and lets the tension fade from his muscles. If the two-legs keeps it up, he’ll probably fall asleep.

For now, he’s just going to soak up the attention.