Far away from what we like to consider the centre of our world, here onthe periphery of a distant continent, where in front of me lies nothingbut a pristine clear ocean and, further on the Antarctic then the South Pole, I stand at the place where a man called Wilf Batty shot the last Thylacine (now the official name for the Tasmanian Tiger).
It was like a creature from a fable, a head like a wolf, small rounded ears, a torso like a dog, a rigid unwaggable tail, the pouch and reproductive system of the Kangaroo and 25 black stripes falling on its yellow-brown short hair. The Tasmanian Tiger did not howl like a dingo or a wolf. Never attacked people and hunted only for what it needed to eat. It was not a fast runner but moved with a loping gait, relying greatly on its stamina and sense of smell to outrun and catch its prey. Whenever the Thylacine was captured, it quickly gave up the will to survive and few ever lived in captivity for longer than a few years. It seems it wasn't the bloodthirsty beast it was declared to be.