Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [104]
“How big?”
“I don't know. Probably eighteen inches.”
Eighteen inches? What kind of Lilliputian tiger was that? We found ourselves feeling deflated. Maybe it was a juvenile. Or a big-ass feral tabby cat.
We weren't comfortable directly challenging her story. Instead, as tactfully as we could, we asked if she was teasing us—taking the piss as it were.
She laughed and pointed at an older woman at the bar. “That's the real Trudy over there.”
Huh?
Everyone at the bar laughed. “I'm Trudy's mum,” the older woman said. “You know Trudy lives out in the bush without electricity.”
“With little quolls and devils and things that visit in the night,” said Trudy. “And if you want to see it, it will cost you $200.”
We politely declined and thanked Trudy for sharing her tiger story. But we were still perplexed. Was she yarning? Or did she really believe she'd seen one? We took one more awed spin around the thylacine art gallery and decided to head out.
Before we left the Tiger Bar, Trudy asked us if we knew anyone in America who would want to fund a tiger search. “It doesn't take much money, but you need the right equipment to prove they're there. I'd like to find a den so that you could get the little fellows and film a documentary from when they're that big to when they disperse. I know it sounds impossible, but it is possible.” She seemed in earnest. So we took her phone number and told her that if we ever met anyone with a passion for missing marsupials and money to burn, we would send them her way.
When we got on the road again, we checked the map and decided to drive over to the wildlife park where Trudy said she used to work.
“So what did you think of her story?” we asked Alexis.
“Her embarrassment made me feel she believed she'd really seen one.”
“And?”
“It's straight out of central casting—the craggy local who holds the key to the mystery, the earnest reporters.”
“And?”
“What do you want me to say? It's like a combination of mythology, cryptozoology, and conspiracy theory. She's off the grid.”
21. THE NAME IS TROWUNNA
The wildlife park wasn't hard to spot. On the edge of the highway, a ten-foot-high wooden sculpture of a Tasmanian devil with pink ears and parted jaws greeted visitors. Next to it, a folksy-looking sign read, “WELCOME TO THE TROWUNNA WILDLIFE PARK, THE STATE'S NO. I WILDLIFE PARK. COME UP AND PAT A DEVIL, CUDDLE A WOMBAT, OR FEED SOME OF OUR MANY FREE RANGING ANIMALS.”
We walked into the park through a series of gates and found what looked like an outdoor petting zoo. Kangaroos hopped about. A young wombat in a little wooden enclosure came up to the edge of its fence and gave us a friendly look. Eucalyptus trees—stringy barks—grew up between and among the pens. In the center of it all, a young man with multiple piercings and a shirt that seemed to be covered in animal shit was giving a stunningly erudite lecture on Tasmanian devils. He stood inside a small enclosure with four young devils. We knew they were young because their heads weren't big and hulking. Their fur was sleek, shiny, and black. Most of them were snoozing through the talk. Perhaps they had heard it before. A sign posted outside had the words “Devil's Den” carved into it.
As the young man lectured to a group of about twenty people and one attentive devil, a spiny echidna wandered by our feet and a four-foot-high kangaroo hopped over and sniffed Alexis's hand. The kangaroo had light gray fur, a black nose, tall broad ears, and an athletic-looking neck. This was Tasmania's largest macropod species, the Eastern gray or forester kangaroo. We suspected this shrewd-looking kangaroo could box if given a chance. It had been called a boomer by Tasmania's settlers and could tear open a dog if cornered.
When the little crowd around the Devil's Den dispersed, we buttonholed the keeper. His name was Chris Coupland and