The Terrorizing Tiger

”Daddy, tiger,” a small voice called. For the fifth consecutive night, the “tiger” in her bedroom that only Stacy could see frightened her and kept her from falling asleep. I had to do something to permanently remove her imaginary threat.

Four nights running, I explained to her that there was no tiger, especially not in her bedroom. I turned on the light and led her around the room, looking in the closet and under her bed. I proved there was no tiger, but it continued to scare her each night. Clearly, I needed to follow a different strategy. Rationality had failed and it was time to release Daddy Man. Faster than a streaking child at bath time, more powerful than an unopened jar of peanut butter, able to reach high objects without a ladder, Daddy Man, full of muscle and wile, would eliminate the tiger.

I bounded up the stairs and burst into her room.

“Where’s that tiger that scares my little girl?” I demanded, full of mock fury directed at the “tiger.” I pounded my fist into my hand hard, with a resounding slap. “I’m going to punch him right in the nose!” I declared. “Where is he? Is he hiding? Is he scared? I’m not going to let any tiger hurt MY little girl!” I prowled the room, pounding my hand with my fist, demanding a confrontation. “Stacy,” I announced after several minutes of acting more ferocious than any tiger, “I can’t find him. I think I scared him away.” Stacy, wide eyed after my exhibition, nodded mutely. “Good night, sweetheart. I won’t let any tiger hurt you.”

No one else would ever see my performance, I thought as I walked downstairs. My palm still stung and tingled from my act, but Stacy never saw the tiger again.

Bill Bartlett and his wife, Sandi, live in Belton with their two sons.