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.
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