The Cold Treatment

Friends, let me tell you, bears are not logical creatures. You go through life saying “thank you” and “gesundheit”; holding up logs for pregnant bunnies to pass under; allowing coyotes to snag the freshest road waffles. My greatest fear in life is to offend somebody – what else is a bear to be afraid of? Really. It is in the context of this preamble that I shall relate to you the horrors of my day.

I appropriated some construction equipment I found by the highway for the purpose of transporting supplies for Roderick’s fishing venture. It was in the course of these errands that I met the most irrationally quick-tempered ursine ice distributor. Not a minute into our dealings, he asked me if I preferred the ice in the form of cubes or chunks. Eying a fine sow walking past, I exclaimed, perhaps more enthusiastically than is comme il faut, “Chunky!”

The ice bear gave me an icy stare as he asked where I wanted the chunks loaded, and I pointed over my shoulder and said, “Right in the back of that dump truck.”

At which point the bear lost his cool, shouting, “That’s not a dump truck, that’s my wife!” and clocked me. Knocked me out cold.

Nursing Home Nightmares

I went to check on my father yesterday over at the home. When I arrived, some muskrats were holding a Han Solo look-alike contest in the common room. The old bear had hung a big, colorful sign on his door that said, “NO BATHROOM! NO!” for the benefit of a senile neighbor of his who was in the habit of shuffling over to use his toilet.

“The old crone has no sense of decency!”

One of the nurses, a field mouse, had been smuggling him flasks of whiskey. We come from a long line of whiskey-drinking bears: a great uncle of mine met his end after helping himself to a barrel of Jameson’s. (I was reminded of this unfortunate incident when I saw an ad to this effect on a subway in New York when I was in town for a dance marathon convention held by a bunch of Peabody enthusiasts.)

These libations were probably not helping with his nightmares of course. He told me of a dream he had in which he watched a crowd of drunks pile on a cart behind a decrepit old horse and proceed to beat the poor thing to death when it failed to pull them all. I told him to get out and socialize more with the other animals, and headed home.

This morning I got a call from the head nurse telling me that Birch Bear had hit his neighbor over the head with his cane when she came to use his bathroom again. Luckily, she was fine if not a bit disoriented, but they confiscated my dad’s cane and put him on some harder meds.

And Bat's The Way It Is...

I’ve spent the past few days nursing my wounded ego and the poison ivy I picked up on the way to the puppetry gig. I’ve been signing apology notes to be sent to the parents of all the bats in attendance at our program.

The show was ill conceived: it was a series of biblical morality story adaptations for pirates dancing to Michael Jackson hits. Pretty early into the bit about Sodom and Gomorrah, the tape player malfunctioned. In my consternation I said some things that were picked up by my clip-on microphone that I have come to regret very deeply.

It is by great good fortune that the little fledermice in attendance were blind, and therefore did not notice that in my violent scratching at the poison ivy on my wrists, the puppets on my hands appeared to be engaging in unspeakable acts. One less thing to explain to the parents. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I was back on the job market again.

I figured Roderick always has something cooking, so I went and found him hydrating himself at The Perilous Shore. Sure enough, he was devising a plan to sell summer season passes to his ice-fishing club. Osgood behind the bar has an exclusive on the peppermint schnapps, and I’ve got the job of hauling in the ice.

Prosperity's Just Around the Corner

I went to see Dr. Bruce Beaver D.D.S. last week after the incident with the soundboard. (The band made a big stink about the whole incident, so I had to reimburse them for their equipment. Thankfully, they deal in skunk cabbage, which is easy enough to come by.)

Bruce was a nice enough bloke, but carrying on a conversation with him was like pulling teeth. But that’s precisely his job, so I guess it works out. It had occurred to me that my cash flow had been unidirectional ever since I left the motorcyclists, and what with the dentist visit and the ordeal with the smelly Kiss band, it might behoove me to find some gainful employment. I asked the Beaver poking around in my mouth how he got into dentistry.

He had always dreamed of being a dancer, but at the annual job fair held by the East Tennessee Critters Employment Training Conglomerate (ETC ETC), he stumbled into the booth placed alphabetically contiguously to that occupation, and was bitten by the dentistry bug. He pointed out that the fair was being held again that weekend.

I went with every intention of getting in with the psychologist crowd but I happened into the puppetry booth, and what can I say… a star was born. Apparently, average starting pay for puppeteers is $490,000 or something like that. I got my hand puppet certification over the weekend, and I’ll start tomorrow morning with a show at 7:45 at the Helen Keller Elementary School for Bats.