The tigers do nothing. Nothing at all. They simply sit there behind the steel bars, watching their observers. Some have the vaguest want to jump upon the humans and rip them to shreds, letting the thirst for blood and flesh manifest itself in a glorious flood of gore. But they know to hold back. The bars are difficult to jump through.
Some still haven't gotten used to the noise. The squealing of children, the laughter of adults, the demanding voices of the Guards. Some people want to feed them, only having their attempts to throw popcorn or ice cream at the large orange cats thwarted.
Don't do that, a guard says to a five year old throwing a popsicle in the cage, who then yells for his daddy to make the mean man go away, only to be spanked by the daddy for being rude. And then the other kid throws a sandwich in the cage.
The younger tigers eat the food thrown in, or at least play with it. They have grown up with the taste of bland food so the salty and sweet snacks prove to be a little excitement. The adults and the elders do not touch the "garbage", and some scold the offspring. Others could care less.
At night, when the zoo is closed and the offspring and younger adults are asleep, the elders talk. They talk of the old days, when the world was green and when they were free. Free and young. Free, young, and wild. Now, they only have memories of those days; memories locked away inside of old, worn bodies.
The food was always fresh and running, one says.
It always made eating worth it, another says.
Delicious, the final, the oldest, says.
Then, sad and defeated, they go to sleep, full knowing that when they die, the last fiber of the wild will vanish forever. And then, their descendents will be stared and laughed at, as the humans go to the zoo, famous for holding the last of the tigers. It says so on the large banner out front.