Okay, so he’s not wild. But, whenever he does this it makes me think of one of my favorite poems, "The Panther" by Rainer Maria Rilke, composed in Paris in 1902. (It also makes me think that he wouldn't look so bad stuffed and displayed on a shelf when he dies.)
The Panther by Rainer Maria Rilke
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.