Who would have thought I’d find myself watching out for tigers on my walks around my Mexican neighborhood.
There’s a rat that occasionally ventures out from the overgrown lot I pass on the way to my grandson’s school. I watch out for him every day.
Drivers who make left hand turns from right side lanes, motorcyclists that show up unexpectedly at my side windows, dangling wires above sidewalks, uneven bricks in cobblestone streets. I’ve learned to watch out for them all.
I even watch out for things that don’t pose a danger. Bookstores selling English language books, a grocery that might carry Bisquick, churro stands, photo ops, ornate gates, slug bugs. The list goes on.
But tigers? They weren’t even a blip on my Mexican radar--not a minor character in a bad dream or a single thought that took up space where I try to store my Spanish verbs.
Until a few days ago when one showed up ambling about our neighborhood.
“Just a youngster,” they said. As if that was supposed to assuage my concerns and let me sashay to the clubhouse without looking over my shoulder and jumping at every orange flower that appeared in my peripheral vision.
I’m familiar with youngsters. I spend the better part of my days with two of them. And trust me, they have a tendency to bite or strike at the slightest provocation. Like refusing them a second cup of chocolate milk, running out of popsicles, taking away the iPad or, heaven forbid, taking them to a restaurant that doesn’t have Happy Meals.
So I find little comfort in the young age of the tiger that was checking out the neighborhood playground. Particularly when he looked the size of a bulked up teenager.
“He was caught and taken away,” they said. And I do find some comfort in knowing this.
But then I think about the old adage, “If there’s one mouse, there’s more.” And I can’t find anything on Google that tells me that it’s not true about tigers too.
“Living in a foreign country will open your eyes,” people said when I moved to Mexico.
Turns out they were right. I’m watching for tigers.