Siberian Tiger catches live chicken thrown to it by tour guide to provide photo op for Fried Man
Our own Sweet Tiny Pea wiped out an entire family of house wrens awhile back:
We had watched the parenting pair build their nest in a leftover Christmas wreath by the back door. A week or two later, the eggs came, and we clasped our hands under our chins and beamed with wonder. Then, at the appointed hour, the babies came, and the earnest mother and father were flying in and out with food 24/7. We felt like doting godparents. One day upon returning from an early-morning walk, we noticed the wreath was askew. Twinge of adrenalin. The nest was empty. Large burst of adrenalin. Tiny feathers and innards strewn about. Heart-stopping shot of adrenalin. The mother and father flying in and out in a frenzy: Where are the children?
Oh, yes. And the very same Tiny, sweet cuddly light of our lives, defending her turf, was herself nearly done in one time by a neighborhood raccoon who got hold of her hindquarters and shook and shook. She lost a tooth but had enough of her nine lives left to live to fight another day.
We are torn.
I still prefer tigers.
About 15 years ago in a jungle camp near Manaus, Brazil, I got to play with a half wild ocelot.
It was an incredible animal. No larger than a house cat, but I am confident it could have bitten our my throat if it wanted to.
It was playing with me, climbing up my pants and shirt to grab treats I was holding at head height. I was wearing heavy trekking clothes because the thorns in the Amazon jungle have to be seen to be believed.
Another tourist, who was wearing light weight pants, tried to do the same thing. The ocelot's claws ripped through his pants and gouged his legs bloody before he had time to throw it the food and get away.
Posted by: Michael Friedman | February 21, 2004 at 08:08 AM