The Tiger Bite

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Sept. 16, 2003
FREE STATE, South Africa — Never mind the red droplets clinging to Julie's whiskers or the fact that her canines look like bloody icicles. Never mind the acrid smell. To close my eyes and pinch my nose would do little to mitigate the power of this scene.

It's what I'm hearing that defines this moment: the sound of carnassials, honed to perfection.

Carnassials are what set the order Carnivora apart from other mammals. These scissor-like back teeth cut skin, flesh and sinew. Particularly pronounced in cats, they are set in the back of the short, powerful jaws.

Julie's carnassials are getting a workout just now as she rips into the meaty rear section of a wildebeest carcass.

John Varty and I sit about 12 feet away from Julie, in the open cab of Land Rover. The tiger ignores us entirely. There is no chuffing, no greeting. Nor is there growling. There's just chewing and ripping and gnawing and cutting.

Julie is hungry, but less so than she was just a minute ago when Ron backed off the carcass and let her have a go at it.

Beyond being mere carnivores, cats are known as "hyper carnivores" because their diets consist almost entirely of flesh of other mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians and fish. A mixed diet including fruits and nuts is not an option for a tiger because its entire digestive system is a finely tuned meat-processing plant.

Meat is easier to digest than plants, and extremely nourishing. But there are strings attached. Finding prey can be difficult, as Ron and Julie can attest, having unsuccessfully hunted wildebeest for several days. And bringing down prey can be frustrating, at best, and often dangerous.

Although Julie's stomach looked pulled in tight and empty, she and her brother appeared wholly disinterested in hunting this morning, preferring instead to lie around, occasionally boxing and pawing at each other.

Varty was thinking that maybe we'd take Julie to the river for a swim, and to let her explore some den sights. Perhaps a little field trip would whet her appetite. Then, suddenly, Ron started moving toward the elusive wildebeest herd, bush by bush, keeping in cover. One trotted right by him, clearly within striking distance, and he let it go, waiting for the right moment to charge a group of four. He closed in and made his move on a pregnant adult.

Julie took no part in the hunt. There was nothing cooperative about it. It was Ron's doing from start to finish.

He throttled the beast with his canines, cutting off her airway, while tackling her with his claws. He lay on the animal with his full weight for about 10 minutes, his canines planted deep into its now-broken neck. As he lay there, Julie began doing the most amazing thing: pulling at and dragging the wildebeest — and Ron, too, as he was still attached to the neck by his teeth — toward the cover of a thicket.

Varty watched, amazed at Julie's brute strength. Ron and the wildebeest together must top 900 pounds, but Julie was hauling the combined weight. Hunger is a powerful thing.

She had a bite to eat right then and there, as she was heaving and ho-ing the carcass and Ron.

Then Ron took over the meal, helping himself. But having gorged himself on an ant bear just a day ago, he was quickly sated and went to lie under a rus tree, allowing Julie to have the carcass to herself.

At 250 pounds, Julie will eat just over 10 percent of her body weight at this sitting — perhaps 30 pounds of meat. When she's good and stuffed, she'll leave the carcass, go to the stream and have a drink, and then sleep it off in the nearby shade.

Julie is awash with blood on her paws and face. We'll pass on our original plans for a swim outing today, Varty wisely decides.

About an hour after the kill, the entire hindquarters of the wildebeest is gone. We'll come back tonight to see what remains, if anything.

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