Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [26]
When we visited the onboard gift shop, we were thrown for a loop. If Tasmanians historically had not cared much for the thylacine, they obviously liked it now. Tasmanian tiger T-shirts, jerseys, and hooded sweatshirts lined rack after rack. There were tiger snow globes, decorative plates, pewter figurines, sun visors, key chains, refrigerator magnets, collectible spoons, shot glasses, tea towels, and “stubbie” holders for keeping beer bottles cold. One long, multi-binned shelf was devoted exclusively to stuffed animal versions of the tiger. There were also numerous tiger books—from children's stories to scientific treatises. And there were even little striped jackets you could buy to dress up your dog as a thylacine. Apparently being branded extinct was no barrier to marketing.
We couldn't decide if the tchotchke-ization of the tiger was cute or disturbing. The Tasmanian devil ran a close second as the icon of choice. The devil toys had red tongues and big white fangs. Alexis quickly began criticizing the form, coloring, and texture of the stuffed animals. “What is this? This looks like a dog. What's wrong with these people?”
He picked up a book that showed a mummified version of a Tasmanian tiger. It had been found at the bottom of a cave in the Nullarbor Plain on the Australian mainland in the 1960s. The dry air and constant temperature in the cave had desiccated and preserved the body. Though the tiger was shrunken and dried-out-looking, you could still see its weird wolfy shape, several dark brown stripes, rows of sharp teeth, and even its tongue. When the tiger mummy was first found, some people thought the animal had died in recent times, which would mean that thylacines had somehow survived on the mainland. But when scientists radiocarbon-dated the mummy, they discovered it was more than four thousand years old.
Alexis pointed at the photo. “I have a mummified fox that looks exactly like that.”
“Where'd you get that?” we asked.
“It was a present.”
We spent the rest of the evening sampling Tasmanian wines from the bar on the foredeck. When we went to return our glasses, a tipsy woman at the bar was whispering to a friend and leaning her head toward Alexis and Dorothy. “Those two there. Wasn't he one of Carrie's boyfriends? And she's the rich one. Not Miranda, but—”
“Charlotte.”
“That's the one.”
They had mistaken them for actors on Sex and the City.
Around midnight, we decided to retire to our cabin and fell asleep immediately. After what seemed like twenty minutes, a tiny intercom positioned next to our heads tinnily blared, “We have arrived. It is six A.M.” This announcement was repeated every few seconds until we were finally rousted.
Looking and feeling haggard, we trailed behind Alexis and Dorothy to the outer deck and looked out expectantly as the ferry approached the island and the city of Devonport. In the distance, mist shrouded a low mountain. In the foreground were a medium-sized industrial port, a McDonald's, and a multiplex cinema.
Alexis looked at the McDonald's. “We may have more to fear from globalization than we do from land leeches,” he said.
Straggling off the ferry, we passed an old-looking beagle. This canine cop was the last line of defense in the effort to stop the importation of exotic species. As we filed past, he wagged his tail and panted at us. Alexis smiled at the beagle and patted the sleeping bag strapped to the bottom of his backpack. When we were just out of earshot he muttered, “That dog should retire if it can't sniff out this shit. He should be put out to doggy pasture.”
6. DAY OF THE DEAD
We had arrived in Tasmania, the land of the tiger. And along with intense fatigue, we felt a sudden sense of urgency. “Alexis,” we said blearily. “We need to get out into the bush … to walk where the tiger walked … watch its stripes melting