As it turns out, that bear I met who came from Warren County, New Jersey, and likes all the same stuff that I do, and has an identical birthmark is actually my twin. Separated at birth. Larry Bear is his name. I’ll be damned! Actually, I have been damned for all intents and purposes. He’s been running up gambling debts, conducting his affairs with enviable promiscuity, and generally being a disreputable bum around this forest for years. And when most critters see me, they tend to assume I am he.
Not to be outdone by me in the wild, life-changing surprise department however, he had no idea who his father was, or that he was still alive and residing within garbage can-throwing distance. The only family he had ever known was a “pack” of feral huskies who aspired to lupine status. In effect, he was raised by phony wolves. As a result, he had acquired a taste for a dish comprised of deer meat and Purina. I tried some, and I’m inclined to stick with frozen pierogies and squirrels.
In the past week, I’ve made multiple attempts to introduce him to old John Birch Bear, but he has failed to arrive at the appointed hour each time. Birch Bear is none too excited about meeting him either. Apparently, when we were born, a fortune-telling porcupine prophesized most threateningly: If a single forest two twins do roam, confined you’ll be to a nursing home.
“But it will be a really cool Star Wars themed place with storm trooper nurses and all the ice cream you can eat!” he added. Prescient.
Consequently, my father outfitted Larry with a sack of trail mix and sent him down the Appalachian Trail as soon as he could walk.
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