Whittling Away with Dick Brooks - Bear With Me

This is the season that brings out the animal in me.  I’m almost positive that in another life I was a bear.  There are just too many signs that this is a true statement to argue with.  I’m furry, granted there isn’t much on the top, but I won’t go topless in the forest during hunting season with good reason.  I frequently use large stationary objects as scratching poles.  I will admit to having more than once dipped a finger into the honey jar and then licked the wayward digit clean.  I like digging for stuff, roots, buried treasure, grubs, it doesn’t much matter, I just like digging.  I like to fish and I love berries.  My eyesight isn’t great and I like sniffing old stuff.  I’m fond of a nap after the consumption of a large volume of victuals.  I have been known to growl on occasion.  All these are very bear-like behaviors.

The most convincing sign occurs in the fall.  The temperature starts to drop and my appetite starts to increase.  Breakfast goes from toast and coffee towards pancakes and syrup, scrambled eggs, bacon is always good and maybe a doughnut or two just to keep the fat level where it should be.  Lunch goes from being nothing to soup and a sandwich, not a dull, slim, lack luster, ladies’ luncheon kind of sandwich but a creative exercise in gastronomic artistry that would make even Dagwood wince.  Damn the torpedoes, leave no leftovers behind.

A short period of hibernation on the couch and I’m ready for supper.

It’s a well known fact that bears are Omnivores. Omnivores are the trash cans of the animal kingdom, they can and will eat anything.  I am now and always have been an omnivore and I’m proud of my heritage.  This time of year, I’m not fussy, I’ll eat anything—step on my foot and my mouth opens.  As a former bear, I still feel the pull of Mother Nature’s will.  She whispers softly in my ear, “You should eat, it’s getting cold, Winter’s on the way”.  Who am I to mess with Mother?  I eat, my pants groan, my belt runs out of holes.  Blubber is good, the more blubber-the better.   Winter will be long and cold, only the fat bears will survive.   

It starts to snow, I’m ready.  My brother bruins waddle off to their dens, I recline on the couch, we doze off.  The bears sleep for three months, never knowing the howl of the freezing wind or the bite of the falling snow.  I wake up in twenty minutes.  Old humans are lousy hibernators.  I spend the next three months freezing my now prominent posterior off shoveling snow and trying to lose the weight I put on during the fall feeding frenzy.  This inability to get a decent winter’s snooze leaves me grumpy and grouchy.  I walk around growling to myself and around mid February I get this irresistible urge to bite any passing weatherman.   This is the price I pay for not having remained a bear.

Thought for the week—Two Thirds of Americans can’t do fractions.  The other half just doesn’t care

Until next week, may you and yours be happy and well. 

Whittle12124@yahoo.com .