It transpires that Tiger is not homeless, nor is his name Tiger.
His name is Jones. He was rescued two years ago by a couple who live in the townhouse complex next to mine. (The intersection between my complex and theirs is where I first saw Jones about two months ago, in June.) Over the weekend, his owners went driving through my complex, looking for Jones, as he’d not been home recently. He happened to be sitting on the step in front of my apartment, my neighbor was sitting outside, and the tale was told. The owners assumed that Jones had found a place to hang out; their main concern was that he wasn’t being mistreated. Jones, as mentioned, is a rescue cat, believed to be around fifteen. He’s an indoor-outdoor cat, and his owners have another indoor cat, whom Jones “terrorizes.” People he likes, other cats not at all.
Despite being found by his owners and a request from them not to feed him, Jones (whom the children now call “Tiger Jones”) continues to hang out in my apartment complex. This morning, as I opened the door to go to work, Jones tried to rush into my apartment. After scratching his head and, when he flopped over on his bad, a belly rub, he hopped up on a foot stool (which had not been there before) in front of the neighbor’s apartment and stared at me with indifferent disdain.