Some Otter Time

Old Birch Bear sure wasn’t keen on being stuffed in his “holding cell” out at Binary, but the doe on staff slipped some tranquilizers into his ice cream and that was that. I bid him adieu and headed down to The Perilous Shore to grab a drink.

I had a lot on my mind as I had received a long awaited letter from Mary Bear back in New Jersey that was decidedly more distant in tone than previous correspondences. But whatever. I figure she’s busy helping her mom run their combination umbrella and concealed handgun store in addition to maintaining her medical practice.

I started slurping, and struck up conversation with Osmond the otter or whatever his name is. He told me that he had been a few days away from being ordained as a Catholic priest when he heard from a lady otter he had encountered over spring break up in Grand Forks, North Dakota. She was pregnant, so he disappeared from the seminary and married her. They divorced shortly thereafter, of course, and he joined a traveling medicine show. One night on the road, he and his boss got into a heated argument over the transubstantiative properties of sarsaparilla and grain alcohol. His merchandising companion tried to strangle him with his bolo tie, at which point they parted ways. Which is how he came to tend bar here in Tennessee.

Just as he was beginning to explain how Medicare reimbursements work for snake oil salesmen, a Kiss tribute band comprised of skunks began playing at top volume. I was in no mood, so I ate their soundboard. Half way through the reverb panel however, I chipped a tooth, but Osric was able to recommend a dentist.

Roderick Pulls a Fast One

I was supposed to move my dad into Binary Sunset today, but I got the most urgent phone call from Roderick the Raccoon who had landed in prison for scalping cheeseburgers outside a Wendy’s. Rod has been a real help since I’ve been down here, so I couldn’t very well leave him hanging. And besides, the prospect of going to a jail seemed a lot more exciting than that of going to a nursing home. Even one with a cool Star Wars theme.

So I went down to the jail to see what I could do. It seems Roderick had devised an ingenious scheme based on the idiosyncrasies of the Wendy’s price structure. He was buying Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers for 99 cents a piece, peeling the bacon off them, and then selling them for 1.29, a full ten cents below what Wendy was charging for cheeseburgers inside.

The judge was in the pocket of big business, and was much more appalled by all this than the fact that he was then taking the leftover bacon, grinding it up, and using it to stretch the pastrami he was selling to a Kosher Deli on the other side of town. But that’s the South for you.

The bail was $500, way more money than I had ever seen in one place, but Roderick told me where his stash of cheeseburgers was, and we were able to bribe the warden with ten of them, plus fries and a frosty.

Riding off into the Binary Sunset

I’ve spent the past week scoping out what must be every retirement home in East Tennessee, and I can’t say it’s been fun. I used to frequent old-folks homes around Christmas and Memorial Day with a Reggae-Klezmer band I played in when I was rebellious teenager, but there’s a big difference between visiting to bring music to warm peoples’ hearts, and visiting to survey the prospects of bringing in a disgruntled old bear.

These places are all the same. The smell of pee and death wafts through fluorescent-lit hallways leading nowhere. (Sorry for getting mildly poetic for a moment, but a week like this will do that to a bear.)

I was getting mighty discouraged in my quest until today when I came upon the most novel establishment: Binary Sunset Rest Center. A Star Wars-themed nursing home! The nurses all wander around in storm trooper costumes and their syringes light up and have light saber sound effects built in. And on Tuesday nights at 5, right after naptime, they have a Cantina scene-themed dance in the common room with a live band.

Of course, this all got my attention in a hurry, but what finally sold me was the free ice cream they were handing out to anyone who signed up in the dining area. If you ever meet a bear who claims to be impervious to the persuasive powers of ice cream, he’s either got rabies or he’s a pathological liar, and either way, you should run as fast as you can. Unless it’s a grizzly, in which case you’re supposed to curl up and play dead. I think. You can thank me later for that.

The Perilous Shore

After the scene at my father’s, I went down to the creek to drown my sorrows. As I began slurping my way to oblivion, I struck up a conversation with the raccoon seated beside me. Roderick was his name, and what stories he could tell. He said he had stood in the path of a semi on Route 26 and not been squished through sheer willpower. He was a not-too-distant cousin, he also told me, of Rocky Raccoon of Beatle’s fame. He had spent many years working pyrotechnics for a rock band called The Gnarly Buttons. What a character!

I asked him if he was related, by any chance, to Ralph from back home, but he didn’t think so. Same surname though, so I have my suspicions.

It turned out that he knew my father by reputation because his sister-in-law Rita had done landscaping for him.

“She really made the place as welcoming as you could under the circumstances. I always thought the petunia planters on top of the gun turrets were a nice touch.”

He was surprised to learn Birch Bear was still among the living since he had not heard about him in a few years. As the conversation progressed, the Lutra canadensis tending bar – Oscar something-or-otter – chimed in about a home his mother was in called Hillside Manor. Then a duck seated across from us suggested Lawn Crest Retirement Village. And a beaver mentioned Shady Elm Assisted Living. And a sparrow offered Pinedale Convalescent Home. Soon, more animals came yammering out of the woodwork with ideas: Hillcrest, Lawn Side, Elm Dale and Shady Pine Senior Center, Rest Home, Geriatric Care Facility, and Skilled Nursing Unit, respectively. Having heard enough, I thanked them all, settled up my tab with Oswald or whatever and stumbled out.

Nurse Sherry Bear

Nurse Sherry Bear was a weathered old thing. She had a big floppy bear gut and claws stained yellow from years of tobacco use. Still, with a twinkle in her bloodshot eyes and winningly gnarled teeth, you could tell she had once been a P.Y.S. – pretty young sow. She knelt silently over old Birch Bear to stabilize his wounds.

“How’s the old dipstick, eh?”

With pursed lips she continued working, ignoring his tasteless overture.

“Think I’m about due for another oil change yet?”

Flustered, she turned to me and said, “I really have no idea what he’s talking about. He must be delirious.”

“What’s this now? What happened to all the fireworks! Hubba-hubba!”

She continued diligently as the possums wandered over to the fridge and started rummaging.

“My flower, what’s the matter? Bzzzzz! Bzzzz! I’m a bee! I’m a bee!”

I was appalled. What kind of vulgar brute was this bear, and how could such a sensitive gentleman as myself be related to him? As I considered this, the dentally endowed little card sharks removed a rotten head of lettuce, triggering an avalanche of miniature ketchup packets from the depths of the icebox. They scurried to shovel them into the wastebasket and return to their scavenging but the old bear’s head shot up.

“All my evidence! I need those for my lawsuit against the Education Department!” He had snapped one of his neck splints and his head hit the floor with a thud.

Sherry stood and said, “He has no business living alone. Get him into an assisted-bear facility before he really hurts himself.”