Bare Necessities

It shouldn't take the better part of a lifetime to spot a bear in the wild. This is especially true when most of that lifetime has been spent in bear country, but that didn't stop me from not seeing one until the bulk of my natural life was already bobbing downstream on its way to the gulf. Everyone else had seen at least one bear, even the upstart pilgrims from other, non-bearing parts of the world. Thus, my sighting, when it occurred, lacked much of the swelling you might expect after years of waiting and wishing. There was no sense of revenge, or vindication, or superiority; instead of eating my enemies, the bear only reared up, sniffed the air, then loped off toward another pile of discarded fries.

I'm not sure how many years have passed, but the marks I made on the cave wall tell me it's been 1,537 days since I saw the bear. The same marks tell me how many days have gone by without seeing the bear, and the numbers coincide. This leads me to believe I haven't entirely lost my bearings, a comfort when you consider the average bear's clumsiness with small parts.

On the other hand, my cavemate seems perfectly content to have lost his barings, preferring the cool comfort of cotton to the shameful nakedness he had been forced to bear before illumination struck. A bare cave no more, home is a warmer, more inviting place—and happier, now that the overbearing relatives have gone. The shelves are well stocked with the fruits of the Bering Sea—kippered herring, and whitecaps for nightcaps—while outside the perimeter, the last stampede sends bulls and lemmings to the nearest watering hole, perchance to dream.