Don't Bang On the Lion's Cage

Don’t Bang on the Lion’s Cage is a short story inspired by ‘Allegro Strepitoso’, a painting by Carel Weight at The Tate gallery; the French song ‘Fallaitpas écraser la queue du chat’ (Don't Tread On The Cat's Tail) by Clothilde; and my own blend of writerly schadenfreude.

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Cuddles was stretched out like a luxe rug in a billionaire’s bachelor pad, but he could not be mistaken for a hunter’s trophy. The stench of flesh on Cuddles’ mane and the livid glint in his eye meant he was all too alive to be mere flayed skin, stuffing, and marbles; which was unfortunate for his keepers and the circus troupes they had dragged in out of desperation. Even the darts that pockmarked his rear could not calm the frenzy of a lion wronged. Rather, the old nanny trembling in his paws was his prize, won fair and square during a game of pass-the-parcel with his tamer.

"She wasn’t superstitious, but she should have been", thought the lion. “Just a little bit.”

Shrieking did nothing to help the old busy-body save herself, nor did running. The lion moved in with the speed of a frantic, ravenous street urchin upon sight of a stray hot-cross-bun. As witnesses would later tell The Times, the whole spectacle was not entirely unlike watching a pig wearing heeled leather boots attempt to trot away from the farmer during slaughtering season; futile and sickening, but all too extraordinary an occurrence to drag one’s eyes away.

‘What on God’s green earth happened to cause such a thing?’ wondered the zoo keepers, powerless to soothe or punish their cat.

Cuddles had quite a few choice words for them, but he often found that humans never listen… He roared and roared, the fire building in his big, barrel chest. Over the chaos of screams and cries, he was not heard. But should a reporter have asked his opinion, he would have told them loud and clear that the matter was one of divine discernment. To put it simply, the old woman was a pest.

The earliest memory Cuddles could remember was his shipment from the Sub-Sahara as a cub; the seas were rough and he was frightened to be separated from his mother. He braved the new, cooler climate and confinement as an orphan. Bars restrained him, and though he held his head high – what else could you expect from such a regal animal? – he had a strong distaste for the human race.

His rage was exacerbated by the rattle of his cage during gales. Though he did not hate the wind – the invisible yet noisy cellmate who ruffled his mane like a fond lioness – one thing that never failed to anger him was the deliberate rattling of his cage. 

For weeks on end, a spoiled child had been toted to Marigold Lane Zoo by his nanny. Cuddles could pick the kid out of a nursery school line-up, had any of the bobbies asked him to; he recognised the blighter by the stickiness of his face, always smeared with confectionary of some kind.  

“Make it roar,” demanded the boy.  

"But Thomas, surely that would frighten you,” the old pushover tried to reason with him. 

“I want it to!” he bellowed, thrashing his legs and throwing himself from the pram which he was entirely too big for. 

Without a thought for Cuddles’ comfort, the nanny reached out and banged on the bars of his cage. His natural reaction was to roar, which delighted the child. From then, the boy wished to see this spectacle before naptime every single day. Cuddles’ heart would pound when he heard the familiar click of heels outside his enclosure, accompanied by soft, wheedling voices. The lion felt his pride dissolve with every roar.   

Superstitious tales shared between the prisoners on cold, wintry nights led Cuddles to believe in retribution. The capuchins sidled over to him one night and whispered legends of the rainforest into his ear. They curled their little paws in his mane and told him he was powerful. That he still had authority. That they believed he could free them. 

Cuddles was enchanted by the capuchins. Whether it was the spells they cast on him, or the way they patched up his deflated ego, Cuddles found himself king once more. His wishes were granted with just one baleful glance at the old nanny, who became mesmerised by him, her own eyes flooded with fright. 

His first act of dominance over this woman was to charm her fluffy friends into carrying out his deeds. Those curly-haired, long-snouted, pink beasts somehow always managed to be on the other side of the cages, which made them perfect accomplices. As the hounds turned on their mistress and pursued her, slavering at the mouth, Cuddles grumbled happily to himself.  

On the second day, the nanny still had not learnt her lesson. Cuddles was glad to reinforce his teachings by way of the parakeets, who took aim from the aviary battlements, showering her and her charge with missiles. The following days were brightened up with small visitors from the Reptile House, whom Cuddles coached on the best way to climb up the lady’s leg. Though her shrieks were loud enough to hear on the other side of England, his tormentor still took her toddler to the zoo the very next day. Even the baboon dung placed in her handbag by little capuchin fingers was not enough warning, and the fruit bat attacks and spider bites failed similarly. 

If Cuddles wanted to exact his revenge on this bully, he knew he would have to do it himself. His powers had grown over the course of the week, and the nod of his favourite capuchin told him it was time. 

With one fell leap, Cuddles threw himself at the bars of his cage. Like a bulldozer tearing through paper, he was free from his restraints. The look on the nanny’s face was an image Cuddles wished he could remember forever. 

He squeezed the woman in his strong arms until she expired from fright, which her bemused charge watched with a lack of warmth or compassion. As the crescendo of roaring, cawing, cackling, and jeering caused the visitors to cover their ears and sob, the rainbow of tranquilisers fired was like mere confetti in the air, powerless to quell the animals’ victorious cries. 

A perfect summer afternoon for the prisoners of Marigold Lane Zoo.