Copyright © 2016 by Thomas Gangale
The first time I saw Dylan launch from a crouching start on the carpet, where he could accelerate with maximum traction rather than scramble awkwardly across the slick plastic floor sheeting, bound to the seat of a couch and then to its back, and from there leap to a wall within half a meter of the ceiling, to my mind he earned his wings as a Flying Tiger, despite failing to splash the target on that particular sortie. There would be other missions; the supply of targets was inexhaustible. The geckos would come down from the attic into our living space, as would the roaches and the large Tongan spiders. These arthropods were not very challenging, merely providing targets of opportunity for training purposes. The geckos, on the other hand, as difficult as they were to bring down, were the succulent prizes. The look in his eyes in some of the early images I took of him still have the power to unnerve me; the face of death stares pitilessly, the focus on the prey is absolute; the purity of the predator, the eater of life. He was not five months old. As Dylan grew up, he expressed many other attributes, but at his core this was what he was and would always be. I was glad that Dylan was my friend... and that I had 15 times his weight.
He just ate an insect, that’s how he greets the morning
Searching for spiders that hide in the rafters
Rodents and lizards, yeah that’s what he’s after
The geckos are chirping, they talk about him
He purrs at my feet, but he’ll strike on a whim
CHORUS:
That’s Dylan when he’s killin’
It’s the way it’s meant to be
He’s a tiger in his own mind
And who am I to disagree?
The evenings are full of geckos on ceilings
He slept through day, now he finds them appealing
He chatters so sweetly with murderous intent
His mouth gapes half open, tasting their scent
There’s manna in heaven, he tracks every motion
He worships the sky with vicious devotion
CHORUS
He who made kittens did the world no great favor
He sent them to sample all of its flavors
They’re lovers of life, not necessarily yours
Look for your death, it’s beyond the next door
What made you think they would thank you for dinner?
It’s just the fate of the weak in the jaws of the winners
CHORUS
CHORUS
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