Strange Bedfellow Need Not Apply
Previously, I learned hammocks are bear lures, pleasing enticements to those sleepy varmints.
While resting in my hammock for one final swing before that rope net's security-mandated hiatus, an email sent a few hours earlier had not been delivered to me due to a technical glitch. If only I had known our next door neighbor had written:
"Mike, Mike, there was just a bear in our yard. Bear alert. Bear alert!"
Sally went on to mention the bear had been within 35 feet of her family before he retreated, probably headed to our place, which would fit the pattern.
Frankly, I don't recall too much of her message because, when I finally received and read it, my increasing nervous jumps, jolts, and twitters made the world appear to be undergoing a top level earthquake, or, I'm told, sex with Barney Fife.
I drooled so voluminously, I faced being sued by the Waltzing Waters.
I leased one of their self-contained pools and they left me alone.
I would have been nowhere near my hammock had I been up to speed on the whereabouts of the bear, otherwise not seen nor heard nearby for weeks. He never phones, not even a card.
We have every reason to believe there has been only a solitary bear in the immediate area over the past few years because this one has a pronounced limp. I feel sorry for the guy, but I doubt he would let me help him -- and, sadly, I don't speak the Ursus americanus for "Bactine."
Continued: There's No Need to Fear, Under Bear Is Here!
