Somewhere in Russia in the late '90s, a tiger was severely injured by a rather talented poacher. Many months later, the tiger took his revenge and ate his attacker.
True story. I heard about it on the radio, but, apparently, the whole thing is recounted in a book, The Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival.
I bring this up not to woo you with my randomness, but because I recently had great sympathy for that Russian tiger and his oh-so-patient tracking of the poacher. See, I wanted to interview Denver mayor and Colorado gubernatorial candidate John Hickenlooper.
This seemed like a simple task. I called his PR man. George never called me back. Eventually, I reached him, only to be told that Hick was too busy to speak to me for more than 15 minutes. Honestly, I thought George was a jerk.
I ended up tracking Hickenlooper to Pueblo, running next to him like annoying reporters do in the movies, even following him into his dressing room. (George kicked me out.) Eventually, with a lot of growling, I supplemented my guerrilla interviews with 20 minutes on the phone. The story begins here.
To George's credit, Hickenlooper was busy. Busy, but nice. So nice, in fact, that despite my troubles, nobody got hurt, or mauled, or left shredded in some snowy backwoods. Not even George.
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