`Most people are kind enough not to say anything to our faces but I'm sure they think we're mad'
Today, at 59, he still consults on security for the Games. When I meet Bill, I can't really imagine him in a highstress police world because he seems so comfortable in his life on the ranch. He greets me warmly and asks whether I'd like to see the tigers straight away.
"I know one day Kitty will pass to the other side but I don't like to think about it." She pauses a moment, before shrugging off this thought and adds: "You know what I'm going to do when that happens, Michael? I'm going to stuff that tiger and bring him in the house. That or make a rug out him." were children
Jay sneezes. A creeping redness is working its way up the side of his neck. "I'm allergic to cats," he says, rubbing his eyes. "Crazy isn't it. I spend my whole life around them and they bring me out like this . . ."
Before he can finish his sentence, two tiger cubs pounce on the little man's head and start vying with one another. Jay is smothered in stripey fur, unable to talk. But then he is sitting among seven very demanding tiger-toddlers. It's a strange sight but typical of Texas, a place that prides itself in being over-thetop. In the Lone Star state, everything comes in "large": the people and their obsessions; the oil millions and the skyscrapers; even the trailer-park homes are huge. Which perhaps goes some way to explain the Texan obsession with tigers.
I've always imagined people who owned exotic animals to be extravagantly rich, with nothing left to indulge in but the truly unnecessary. But in Texas, this isn't the case. Here, anyone with a few hundred dollars to spare can buy a tiger and chalk one up against their neighbour's noisy dog. As far as tiger populations go, Texas has the world's largest outside India. Yet unlike the Asian sub-continent, where just a few thousand roam wild and are in danger of extinction, the Texan tigers are on the increase.
According to one estimate, there are a known 2,370 tigers living in the state. Only a small number of these are in zoos or sanctuaries; the rest are privately owned, dwelling for the most part in someone's back yard. It might seem rather strange to outsiders that Texans can own a beast, like a tiger, in such a haphazard way. Ever since the state (formerly governed by George W. Bush) decided that they couldn't be bothered with regulations for the growing number of exotic pet owners, legislative responsibility has passed to a county level. Many counties decided not to pass any regulations at all. Apart from recognised tiger breeders or sanctuaries that are subject to federal laws, the vast majority of Texans who privately own tigers can do whatever they please. And it is this, combined with the heady concoction of novelty factor and the Texan love of extravagance, which has resulted in a steadily growing number of people choosing tigers as pets.
Jay Riggs, or Jungle Jay as his nickname goes, has a salesman patter and the media savvy of a politician. The 36-yearold lives in an ordinary little bungalow with his wife Heidi ("the brains behind the organisation") and three kids. But his is no ordinary family house. On the gate there is a sign warning that "violators will be eaten" and his front garden is home to a clutch of playful teensy tigers. Jay breezes out of his bungalow and launches into his spiel on how he was a dog handler working for the police. And how on one particular drug bust there was this cute baby tiger belonging to the dealer. "I couldn't resist it," he laughs. "And now I've got 40 tigers and a job I love." Jay tours round the country with an "educational show" telling people how it is with tigers. He also juggles all sorts of other tiger work, bringing enough money in, he says, to keep afloat.
He has sold cute cubs to Disney World and put others in the movies. He also gives advice to new tiger owners, most recently Mike Tyson, whose four animals are living at Jay's until the boxer is ready to keep them in his Las Vegas home.
Jay jumps on his Kawasaki mule. As we drive around the 10-acre tiger land, where the animals have wide-open, individual cages and plenty of space, Jay's banter continues.
"When I see a baby tiger, I still go googoo, even after working with them for 15 years." His enthusiasm is infectious and convincing enough for me to leave the safety of the mule as Jay is putting a leash around the neck of a large and beautiful white tiger. He has quite a thing about these animals. With none left in the wild - and only 300 in captivity - Jay is a successful white tiger breeder and currently owns 15. On the open market, these rare, blue-eyed beasts fetch as much as $21,000, far outstripping the usual orange-striped variety.
Without a moment to pause, Jay is off walking his tiger on a lead. The tiger keeps forging ahead, sniffing out new things - and people - pulling Jay along behind him. "He likes to know what's new. Just stay where you are and don't run because that makes them panic." The tiger approaches, sniffs and then slobbers over my hands and jacket.
"You're OK now,' says Jay. "He's got his smell all over you."
No-one I spoke to on my journey could put their finger on exactly why Texans like tigers so much, but everyone had their theory. Some said their distinctive markings set them above other exotic cats; others believed they had more affectionate personalities than lions or leopards. Someone more cynical told me it was because they're cheap. While someone else insisted that there's so much land in Texas that "we need something big just to fill it".
One such place that has lots of land is Tyler, several hundred miles away from Jay's ranch. This is the Bible-belt in the eastern corner of Texas. A place of lavish evangelical churches where folk listen to the slow drawl of the preacher man. It's here that Ron Dickson has cleared a space in Tyler's pine tree woods to put his trailer home and tigers. "Welcome to the Crooked House," Ron says, as he opens the door and lets me into a trailer home that rather disconcertingly slopes to one side, having never been placed on a level base. A sinewy mechanic dressed in dirty black jeans, blue sweatshirt and work boots, Ron has a gold tooth and white handlebar moustache. Although only 52 years old, a lifetime of heavy smoking and God-only-knows-what-else has taken its toll on his face. Ron, who describes himself as a "bit of an anarchist", is not the usual Tyler dweller. In 1979, he gave a friend a lift home from Canada and despite not fitting in with his red-neck neighbours, never went back.
At the moment though, he's in a bad way because a couple of weeks ago his girlfriend was given a 40-year prison sentence for murdering her husband. Ron swears she's been framed and pledges to fight for justice. "If it wasn't for those tigers," he says raspily, between drags on his cigarette, "I would've killed someone myself. But I've made a commitment to them and I can't do anything rash."
Ron lives for his tigers. He says even if his house were falling down he'd still spend his last penny on the animals. He has two: Ernie and a female called Dali who live behind his trailer in a fair-size cage. Ron no longer goes in with his tigers, since Dali shredded the arm of a girl who believed she could spiritually bond with the animals by touching them.
That's not to say he isn't with them all the time. He's got an old sofa by the cage and spends hours just watching them. And everyday he feeds them choice slabs of meat bought from the local grocery store and fit for any man's dinner table.
"I've been around critters all my life. But tigers are different. They aren't pets. They're my companions, my guardians."
Ron says he used to have a temper but having tigers forced him to control it: "It's certainly not safe being moody with something so dangerous. Of course I'm afraid of them. Anyone who isn't, is either a fool or about to become dinner."
Bill Rathburn began his career as a beat cop in the meanest of Los Angeles neighbourhoods and during 30 years of service moved up the ranks to become LA's powerful deputy police chief. Later, he transferred to Dallas to take the city's top police job and then, after leaving the force, became head of security for the Atlanta Olympics.
Today, at 59, he still consults on security for the Games. When I meet Bill, I can't really imagine him in a highstress police world because he seems so comfortable in his life on the ranch. He greets me warmly and asks whether I'd like to see the tigers straight away. Bill and his wife Lou have spent lots of money on their enclosure. Each of the animals has its own cage which connects to a spacious, fenced-in area complete with trees and tiger-sized paddling pool. Over the top of this, is a walkway with garden chairs where, during the summer, the Rathburns sit with a bottle of wine, watching their tigers.
Bill's oldest tiger is six-year-old Raja, a cross-eyed beast who lets out a "fffff ffff" as we approach. "He knows it's Papa," Bill says proudly, as he enters the cage to give him a cuddle. Bill gamely agrees that people find it difficult reconciling him baby-talking a tiger with his tough police background. "Yes it's odd. At work, people used to say that the only time I relaxed was when I started talking about the tigers."
A kindly looking man with blue eyes and a pink face, Bill never imagined that he would be the proud father to three tigers. Although the couple didn't know anything about tigers, Lou - like many people - couldn't resist the fluffy looking cub. Yet from that rather impulsive beginning began a real love affair. Today, says Bill, as we walk back towards his beautifully kept ranch-house, they regard the tigers as their children. A sentiment which Lou, a flawless looking woman with an impressive string of jewels around her neck, agrees.
"I have a strong mothering instinct and having the tigers has totally satisfied me. Their baby months were really the best time of my life. They were so fragile and totally dependent on us."
Lou and Bill are devoted to their tigers. They have a baby book for Raja and lots of soft-focus photos dotted around the house, in the same way that other people have pictures of their children. "Most people are kind enough not to say anything to our faces but I'm sure they think we're mad," admits Bill. "I can't really describe to you the type of bond we have with the tigers. It's totally different from that with any other animal because they're so much more demonstrative."
During the 1950s, the fashion for zoos was to breed lots of cute baby creatures to pull the crowds in. As a result of such programmes, there are so many tigers in Texas that zoos and the vast majority of sanctuaries are operating at capacity and can't accept any more admissions. This lack of space in professional animal-care facilities is becoming a problem as more owners are unable to cope with fluffy cubs which soon grow up into large, demanding predators. That's when these animals become neglected, dumped or even illegally shot dead. This increasingly desperate situation is making the Rathburns think about adopting another unwanted tiger.
"I know people think they should be in the wild,' explains Bill, "but we didn't take them from India and bring them here. They were born in Texas and we're just giving them a good home."
Just down the road from the Rathburns lives the Irons Family. Mary Irons got her first tiger when husband Michael told her about some cubs and she said: "Ooh, I want one." Since then, they've had around 30 and regularly breed litters. Although their initial tiger was a pet, the second was an investment. Nowadays, they also have a lion and are breeding ligers because they're the latest thing.
Mary leads the way into a bungalow living room dominated by frilly curtains and a 46-inch TV screen. Next to me in a glass tank is a boa constrictor which Michael swopped for a rifle. Mary is a hard-working woman and is out of the house all hours juggling three jobs. Because of this, I'm surprised to see that her big, purple rinse hair, a la Dolly Parton, has been immaculately teased into shape. Combined with heavy eyeliner and bright-blue eyeshadow, I can't quite believe her when she says she's 38. The Irons have three tigers right now. And one of them is called Kitty because their 17-year-old daughter Cassey, a chubby blonde, thought she looked like well, a kitty. When I ask Mary to explain her tiger thing, she says: "I just love animals. Horses, tigers, cows, they're all the same. Tigers are just very good pets".
Not wanting to be left out of the discussion, Michael calls me over to the kitchen table for a chat. He used to be a school photographer but it was too high-stress and after burning out he's now "in the consumer credit business" . . . which means he works in a pawn shop. He explains that tigers are unpredictable, sneaky creatures and that the family always carry a cattle prod or broom handle when they go into the cage.
"They need space and they need discipline. I tell that to all the people that have knocked on our door. "People need to understand that tigers are on the way out. It's up to responsible people like us breeders and zoos to do our bit for them.
"But this is not an easy task, not by any means. Take me and Kitty. We have this male thing. It's a testosterone deal. I watch him and he watches me. "We roar at each other. Then I'll go in there and pop him one on the head to make him submit because he needs to learn that I'm the dominant male."
We go outside and Michael gets Kitty to show me his teeth and they do their roaring thing together. He is joined by the rest of the family and they play with the cats, till the Texan sun begins to sink below the horizon and I decide it's time to go. As I'm leaving, Mary comes over a bit contemplative and starts pondering the future.
"I know one day Kitty will pass to the other side but I don't like to think about it." She pauses a moment, before shrugging off this thought and adds: "You know what I'm going to do when that happens, Michael? I'm going to stuff that tiger and bring him in the house. That or make a rug out him."