And now another chapter from...

"Donald: What Did I Drink?"

Chapter Forty-five: A lot to learn

"Having just changed my great uncle's diaper, I was ready to head to his kitchen for a fresh cup of au jois sauce and capers, a particular weakness of mine. I did not expect to be confronted by my uncle's transexual siberian tiger Shema, who I thought remained safely caged in my uncle's living room. Much to my chagrin and eventually mauling, I once again learned a lesson at the inept hands of my aging uncle's befuddled mind. That lesson? Always know where the tiger is.

I could tell from the tiger's steely gaze that this encounter was not one that I could just slip away from. No, the maneater's unflinching crossed and lazy eyes told me a conflict, biblical in scale, was unavoidable.

Of course my first instinct was to rush the cagey creaturing, using my obviously superior intelligence and fantastically opposable thumbs to quell Shema's obvious hunger for the purple meat contained in my burgeoning frame. Only two things stopped me from pursuing this course of action. One- there was an outside chance that the one ton tiger would prove my better in the battle. Two- My uncle loved the tiger. If I were to kill it and remove myself from his favor then the two years I had spend caring for the retarded recluse in an attempt to be named to his will would have proved all for naught.

So instead of attempting to sate Shema's hunger for battle, I opted to appeal to his hunger for food and his thirst for vengeance. I stealthily inched my around the exterior of the kitchen, one half-lidded feline eye fixed on me at all times. I made my way to the basin of ostrich jerky located adjacent to the sink. The tiger's ears perked as I reached a hand towards a particularly gaming chunk of flightless meat. I grabbed ahold and made to toss the meat into my uncle's three story combined dining room and Prussian smokehouse. The tiger briefly looked around, almost taking the bait. But alas my ruthless pantomime had failed me once again.

On to plan B. I carried the jerky to my uncle's jug of 300 proof whiskey. I dipped the ostrich into the literally impossibly-alcohol infused beverage. Knowing that this brew, known as the date-rape drug of choice for elephant rapists, would easily knock out Shema, I tossed the meat and the beast took hold.

The alcohol had some unfortunately amorous side effects as the tiger lunged at me, not to shred me to bits, but to envelope me in a sweet caress. Unfortunately his nearsightedness and rapidly increasing drunken stupor made that caress a painful afair as the tiger's claws plunged into my shoulder. Mere moments later Shema was asleep. I had won the day, but just...

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