I have two chances to pet a tiger, my left arm and my right, without a quiver of hesitation, I’ll believe the animal can sense my animal, a thumping beat of a heart, full of compassion, patience, and blood.
The tiger will nod and sniff the tips of my steady fingers, its whiskers will tickle the fat flesh of my puckered knuckles, and slowly it’ll slip its ruby tongue out and swipe once along the wrist.
We’ll defy girlish fantasy, the beast and me, we will have a kinship above all else, the abuses of Tiger King won’t enter our minds, for I deny the ruling over these creatures, as I am just a two-legged beast myself.
A tiger is a symbol of power and dread, but most importantly, he is real, a fuzzy little guy, just a kitty-cat, a friend.
While I'm lost in the fantasy of our earthling connection, the tiger will take its sweet time with the devouring, sliding my meat off the bone like a chicken wing, juices dribbling off its massive chin.
But I won’t be angry, I won’t be scared, I’ll smile and stroke its adorable ears with my final hand.
And stand by my delusion.
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