There is something about the tiger, a poem of liberty in its genes, a sense that it was born to roam and breathe clean air all of its days and nights.
Shining from those golden eyes was a knowledge of this wild place and a sense that it was all the home a tiger could ever wish for.
The orange-gold of the tiger, with its black velvet artist stripes, was a proud sight amid the tall grasses and sunbathing rocks.
The tiger was chocolate spread on marmalade, as if God had infused paddington bear with a kitty cat and made it every bit as splendid as its lion cousins.
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