Do Not Feed (Yourself To) The Bears.
In the back yard of my mother’s house, behind the barn, where there is still a garden that is long since gone. Throwing little rocks and clods of dirt and pinecones at some sort of furry creature about eight feet away, next to a pine tree. A beaver, or muskrat, or something of the sort. It does not flee, like any sensible animal would, despite being pelted several times about the face and body by my small projectiles. I am wondering why, when I suddenly realize that it is, in fact, a grizzly bear cub, and quite a bit larger than I had thought. And it occurs to me that I am standing eight feet away from a baby bear, throwing rocks at it, and it probably has a mother who will not be especially pleased with me.
I flee for the house.
Entering through the back door from the yard into the laundry room / foyer, I hear noise just beyond the door to the kitchen- the door through which I must pass to get into the rest of the house. It is partially ajar, so I approach cautiously and peer through. Yes, of course, it’s so obvious- the kitchen is full of bear. Just the one, but if you have ever seen a bear up close, you will know that one is quite enough, thankyouverymuch.
The bear is casually trying to open the door as I am frantically trying to close it. I just barely win, but only, I think, due to the miracle of opposable thumbs.
I run around to the front door of the house, not sure if I’m trying to get in before the bear comes to that part of the house, or to close it before it gets out. I am quite sure that whichever the bear is- in or out- I wish to be the other.
Things got more complicated, then, as there were other people on the front porch. Curious people, and perhaps menacing. I do not recall, nor do I know how things worked out. I still have all my limbs, so perhaps that’s a good sign.