Not long ago there had been seven tigers on the island. Now there were none. The Amundsens, building a house there, had flown them away, swinging in nets from helicopters, strange wrathful clawful catches.
Not long ago there had been trees on the island. Now there was a lot of clearing, and in it a lot of wooden walls and balconies and an awful lot of polished flooring.
A tiger would find it hard to walk on that floor, if it ever felt homesick and swam back and wanted a warm bed to sleep in and something plump to eat.
V for vignette 