I don’t know about you, but every so often, I get an urge to climb a tree. I found a big oak near the Delaware River that suited my purposes. About two-thirds the way up, the weight of my foot compromised a branch with a loud crack.
Suddenly, I was a cub again in the thick of bear season. Bullets whistled past my head as I galloped toward the den. I felt a sharp sting in my back right leg.
When I woke up, I was lying facedown on the forest floor under the care of Dr. Mary Bear. During my flashback, I had spun around to swipe at the hunters and lick at my wound. In doing this, I lost my balance and fell 20 feet to the ground.
Mary was a beautiful bear, with thick, hairy legs – the kind I wouldn’t mind hibernating with. Her front bear paws were callused and torn. Her mouth was full of jagged, gnarly teeth, and a slow steady stream of drool graced the right side of her angelic countenance. In short, she was perfect.
She ran her paws down my back to check my alignment. Next she inspected my dipstick and deemed it necessary to give me an oil change… but I don’t kiss and tell.
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