Gerald was hardly what you’d call a big game hunter, but he has been to all seven continents where he has bagged one or more of God’s wilder creatures. Specifically, he relishes the moment of staring down a feral beast, preferably one with sharp teeth. Without breaking his gaze, he gently squeezes the trigger. That’s the money moment. As he can’t really afford the transportation or taxidermy costs associated with a genuine trophy, he has thus far contented himself with a framed photo and a lively anecdote. This year, he has set his sights on Siberia, where he’s read that wolves are running amok, devouring cattle and horses and generally making the lives of the locals miserable. By the time Gerald has booked his flight, he’s already identified a prized spot above his mantle to mount his wolf mid-attack. Only then does he broach the topic with his long suffering wife. After completing a hunt for polar bears in the Arctic, which wasn’t nearly as much fun as he had envisioned, Gerald promised his wife that they could kick back and enjoy a year or two of soaking up the sun in the Bahamas or some such nonsense. His wife bristles as she stares at the tickets to Siberia. Gerald resorts to taking out the map and parsing out the broad swath of land that is Eurasia/Europe. “It’s Russia, honey” he pleads, as if Siberia was everyone’s secret travel destination.