Tag Archives: bear things

Something yelled at me today.

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yelling-2

There many very scary things that populate the forest and cause a steady stream of anxiety and nervousness all the time. Spiders? Sure. Lots of spiders? Absolutely. Snakes? Always? Lots of snakes? It is guaranteed. Ghosts? Likely.

The list is unfathomably long and frustrating, and it makes me wonder how I, or any creature for that matter, manages to go about the forest on a daily basis without curling into a ball and weeping until all of the terror is gone even though the terror can never be gone so the curling and weeping would last indefinitely. I suppose it is something we have to accept and adapt to, but that does not make it any more pleasant.

At least when it comes to spiders and snakes and ghosts I get some kind of warning. I see the snake before I run from it. I feel the spider in my fur before I jump around and try to shake it off. I think I might be able to smell ghosts (not fully tested yet) before they go about their hauntings and whatnot. One of the more terrifying things about the forest does not give you sufficient advanced notice, however. It jumps at you and surprises you and makes everything feel terrible. It pierces your ears and ruins your relationship with whatever is the source of it. It is terrible and horrifying and I do not like it.

Being yelled at.

Nobody likes being yelled at, but that does not stop many things from yelling at many other things. I have been yelled at by trees, wind, humans, raccoons, opossums, falling rocks, snapping twigs, a very determined bee, and several pointy leaves.

I hate it.

And I never get used to it. It makes me feel small and helpless, and I immediately begin considering how I can not be yelled at. I run. I always run from yelling. It is the best option I know about, and, no matter how long I think about it, I cannot come up with a better way to handle being yelled at.

I have, for a very long time, figured that being the yeller must be pleasant. So many things yell at me, and they must all have a reason for doing so. They have to get something out of it.

I tried to yell at something today.

I did not know what to yell at. I did not want to yell at another creature or a tree or the sky because I did not want them to not like me and think I was angry at them or force them to try to eat me. So I decided that yelling at nothing was the best place for me to practice my yelling.

I sat in my dark cave. I stared at the darkness. The nothingness of it all. Here was a place to yell. Here was a place to let out a yell that had to have been boiling within, long awaiting to retaliate for all of the forceful yelling I had endured.

I let it out.

I yelled.

And then the cave yelled back and I whimpered and I ran and I have no idea if it was actually the cave or something inside the cave but either way I am not going back to my cave until daylight or until I know that the yelling will be stopped forever, please do not yell at me anymore cave, please, or whatever yelled at me, please, I am so sorry for yelling.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear. Also, you can find bear photos and such on Bear’s Instagram, and don’t forget to “like” Bear on the book of faces.

Naps do not always make me feel as good as I want them to make me feel.

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napping (2)

I sleep often.

I enjoy how sleeping makes me feel both during and after the sleeping, so whenever I need those feelings, I try to sleep. Napping is a big part of my sleeping, so, generally speaking, napping makes me feel good (or is supposed to make me feel good).

Not every nap does what it is supposed to do, however.

Recently, my naps have ceased to give me the feelings of comfort and weightlessness that used to accompany them, the naps that is. Now when I nap, I feel strange and even more tired than when I decided to nap. Things feel fuzzy and hostile when I wake, as if the forest decidedly kept moving without me, the trees taking a vote on the matter and coming to the conclusion that most trees prefer to move the forest along without me, a bear, over waiting for me to nap.

I know that is not the case. I think (hope) trees like me, and I assume they are probably far too busy with tree matters (sticks, leaves, things blooming or falling depending on the weather) to even think about my naps, especially not maliciously so.

Naps do that now, however. I no longer feel refreshed and ready to continue the day after a brief nap. I want to feel that way, but it just does not seem to happen like that now.

I have thought about what has caused the downfall of my personal naps for awhile now. I have no conclusive proof of any kind of cause, but I do think it might have something to do with distractions. I feel more distracted now than I used to, I think, which makes it difficult to let go of my thoughts and feelings (a process that is necessary to create and maintain a lovely sleeping/napping condition).

I keep thinking when I should be napping. This is a problem.

I find it much more difficult now to let go of these thoughts and feelings. The thoughts are many and varied. It is not as though I have one, single line of thinking when it is time to rest, like something I know will help me sleep instead of hold my sleep back. I think about the forest and the creatures of the forest. I think about bearness and my bearness or my lack of bearness or how I even know what bearness is or if bearness is even a thing. I think about naps and how thinking keeps them from being enjoyable (that line of thinking is particularly frustrating). I think about today, yesterday, and tomorrow, but never as though they are connected in any manner, which, now that I am thinking about that thought, I think they might be.

All of these things sprint around my mind when my mind should be shutting down and preparing to nap.

I want my naps back. I never knew I would miss them so much.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear. Also, you can find bear photos and such on Bear’s Instagram, and don’t forget to “like” Bear on the book of faces.

A lizard slept in my mouth again.

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Lizard mouth (2)

It is not uncommon for other creatures to sleep near me while I am sleeping. I think I might produce a considerable amount of heat compared to most things in the forest, so getting comfortable next to me is really more of a survival tactic than anything else.

I usually do not mind this sort of thing. Creatures come and go in my cave, and though they usually try to disguise themselves as to not alert me, I know when they are there. And, honestly, it is fine. In fact, I like being a big warm ball of heat for creatures who might need it, a more approachable sun, I think. That is a nice thought.

Some animals overdo it, however. A tiny mouse once slept in my ear for several days. I only eventually noticed because I had to shake my fur dry after a light rain. When I raddled my head back and forth, a small mouse was catapulted from my ear. He looked upset, and I am sure I looked confused.

The mouse was not the worst offender, however. That honor would go to the lizard who slept in my mouth… The first one anyway.

Surely, my mouth is quite warm. I understand this. However, I really do not think it would be considered an optimal place for anything to sleep in. This is mostly due to the teeth. I have accidentally bitten my tongue and the inside of my cheek many times, so there is not much stopping me from accidentally chomping down on anything else that might be in there.

This daredevil reptile must not have considered that, though. I suppose I must open my mouth during my sleep (perhaps for deep breathing?), so the first lizard must have found just the right moment to slip into mouth without me noticing.

When I woke up, I tasted a mixture of dirt and squirming (if squirming can even have a taste). I spat out whatever was inside my mouth, and there fell a lizard. I did not get time to ask who the lizard was or why the lizard was there since the creature’s tiny legs scrambled to get out of my cave before I could.

I thought it was a one time occurrence. Maybe the lizard was just so desperate for shelter that night that even the mouth of a bear was preferable to the elements outside of that bear.

It happened again, though.

Just recently, another lizard (I have no idea if it was the same one or not) crawled into my mouth while I was sleeping and rested there the entire night.

Wake.

Taste.

Dirt/squirming.

Spit.

Confused.

I was worried this would start a trend, but it was really out of my control. I cannot control what happens to my face while I am asleep, so I just had to accept that there might be some lizards in my mouth every once in awhile.

I hope they needed to sleep there. I do not think it would bother me so much if I knew that the lizards absolutely needed to sleep in my mouth for survival or something.

I hope they were not just playing a trick on me or intentionally making me feel uncomfortable.

Lizards are a strange mystery.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear

 

Hiding day.

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hiding (2)

Yesterday was a hiding day.

I do not know from what I hid, but I hid from it for quite a long time. I frequently find myself using a nice hiding day to keep away from whatever emotions, deer, bad weather, or rowdy squirrels could potentially give me trouble in a given day. It is nice to just hide away sometimes.

This particular hiding day, however, I wanted to know something: what happened when I hid? Did my worries and troubles really go away? Did the forest worry for my presence, perhaps even going so far as to send search parties out for me? Did anyone actually know where I hid?

There were so many mysteries on hiding days. Another mystery I had to figure out was how I would collect data on a hiding day. How could I hide and understand how the forest functioned while I was hiding? I would have to trust a friend.

I considered trusting Rob (the squirrel), but I knew he would do what all squirrels do (lie). Instead, I decided to ask a very friendly blue bird who nested in a small bush outside of my cave. The bird agreed to fly around the forest during my hiding day, seeing if anything out of the ordinary would happen, particularly things that seemed dependent on the presence of a bear (me).

Then I hid.

I hid inside the very bush where my new bird friend usually nested. It was a good hide. I spent practically all day sitting and hiding and enjoying some peaceful napping and staring.

Then the tiny blue bird came back and reported what he had found.

Nothing.

He told me that the forest had remained the same throughout the day. Nothing of notable importance had shifted in any way he could discern.

Everything was fine.

Without me.

Everything kept moving as it always had and likely always will.

It felt strange.

I thanked the bird for its time and observations and went to my cave. I napped some more. It was difficult to sleep with the knowledge of how unimportant I was to daily forest activities.

I had a dream where the bird, though observant and thorough, simply missed all the tiny aspects I impacted on a daily basis. He missed how the floor of my cave grew cold without me. He missed how Rob (the squirrel) was likely even more aimless and crazy than usual without my presence to balance him. He missed how the deer across the river probably did not even go to the river when I was not there. He missed that his day had even completely changed because of a simple request from me. He missed how the sun came up a few hours later and left a few hours earlier and how the moon did not shine as brightly as it usually did and how the sky fell a few feet downward and…

But that was just a dream. And a nice thought. But maybe he really did just miss a couple things.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear.

My smells: are they for everyone or just me?

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the stink (2)

I spent quite some time yesterday with my snout buried inside the crevices of fur between my claws. Past coming up for the occasional gulp of fresh air, I kept my face in the center of the smell consistently for a long time.

I liked it.

The smell, that is. I really liked it. The fur that is nestled there relaxes me and makes me feel good about myself, my fur, and my claws.

Rob (the squirrel), however, disagreed. Rob (the squirrel) approached me while I was enjoying the smells emitting from my feet, and he was quickly disturbed by the image. He aggressively asked me what I was doing and why I was doing it. I explained, and he asked if he could have a whiff as well. I did not see the harm in sharing such an intoxicating fragrance, so I let him smell the fur between my claws.

His eyes watered.

His face went sour.

He ran up a tree, nearly slamming his head into it as he recklessly escaped the odor of my feet.

I was hurt, honestly. Why did he find my foot smells so repulsive when I found them so delightful. I continued to smell my claw-fur for awhile before I decided to investigate why my smells might have upset Rob (the squirrel).

I had to question whether or not my nose was a good judge of a smell’s character. Just because I liked the smell of something, did that mean it was a universally beloved smell? Did that smell have any kind of popular opinion behind it? Did every creature experience smell in a unique manner?

I had to survey.

I first asked a raccoon in a dumpster I frequent if the fur between my claws smelled good. He was hesitant to try sniffing them, and, in the end, wound up biting them before running away. This was useful data for other questions I have about the forest (example: do raccoons like me?), but it did little in helping me understand my smell dilemma.

I decided to ask a longtime foe of mine for his opinion. I figured if the deer across the river had even the slightest interest in my smells, then those smells must be generally acceptable to all creatures who are not terrible, disgusting beasts and, therefore, Rob (the squirrel) was merely an odd exception.

The deer across the river told me my smells are as pointless as bears are. I then spent some time staring at him while sniffing the fur between my claws simply to spite him.

Finally, I tried testing my bear aromas on some mice who had slept under my belly that morning. Surely they found my belly fur smells enjoyable, so they must have something to say on the subject. They told me they were too consumed by the warmth of my belly fur to notice its smell. I offered them a chance to smell my  belly again just to get their opinions, but they slowly backed away from me in unison upon the suggestion.

I like my smells.

I know they might not be for everyone in the forest, but I do enjoy them. Perhaps we all have different ways of smelling, though, which should make me feel like I do not need the approval for my smells that I so desperately seek. But I still feel the need for that approval.

I hope you like my smells.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

I wanted something yet I was not sure exactly what.

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bear wants (2)

The feeling was weird but familiar. I wanted something particular, but I could not quite put my paw onto what that particular thing actually was. It was intriguing to consider, at first. Going through the desires I might normally have and evaluating if they met my current needs. Then it became annoying. The vague feeling would not leave and could not be satiated.

I decided to just go about my daily routine of various bear related activities and thoughts. I started the day off with a nap (as I usually do). Though I woke up feeling refreshed, I still have an itch to scratch, and the indescribable desire was still keeping my mind wandering.

I then went to the river to drink and avoid eye contact with the deer who also drinks there. Luckily, the deer was not there that day, so I could drink in peace. I was, again, refreshed yet still had a wanting feeling for something I did not have.

Leaves. I love to chew on wads of leaves that I gather around my cave. I did just that. I collected several leaves and placed them into my mouth and chewed and chewed and chewed and it was lovely and delicious.

But it was not what I wanted.

I was becoming increasingly frustrated with my inability to fulfill my phantom desire, and I went through a gauntlet of trials involving a great number of activities and such that I normally enjoyed doing. I napped in a dumpster. I stared at the weird raccoon who sleeps in the pizza boxes at the dumpster. I listened to Rob (the squirrel) and questioned his strange tales/advice as I normally do (this time he asked me if I had ever daringly run under the tires of a speeding car and I asked him exactly what a car was and he screeched and hurled an acorn at my nose, as he tends to do). I even licked my favorite clump of moss that rests in one of the many dark nooks of my cave. I also took two more naps. All of these things were lovely, but I still had the weird, familiar but intangible feeling of wanting something I had not recently had/done yet wanted to have/do without knowing what had to be had/done.

The end of the day had come, and the irritating, irrational feeling was still lingering. It made me exhausted. I slumped down to the nest of moss and leaves and rabbit skeletons that made up my cave floor and slept.

The next day, the feeling was gone. Perhaps I had slept it off. Perhaps I had only imagined it. Perhaps I just wanted to get through another day, and doing so was enough to satisfy the urge. I do not know, but it was good to feel like I overcame it.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also read a list by Bear that details how to approach opossums over at The Higgs Weldon.

A cricket slept in my mouth.

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cricket

I do not know how I look when I fall asleep. I like to believe that my pristine fur calmly rests against the cool rock floor of my cave while my heavy, slow breathing gently vibrates through the forest’s night air. According to Rob (the squirrel), who has watched me sleep many times for reasons he will not explain to me, my entire body twitches as I rustle around on the ground, tossing and turning throughout the night and making sounds that are somewhere between growls and desperate gasps for air. Regardless as to which one is true, I would think it must be difficult for any creature to find a reliable place for repose near me while I sleep.

Yet one has.

I recently woke up to find something sleeping in my mouth. At first, I was unable to determine what the lumpy, salty mystery in my mouth was. I was tempted to just eat it (as I do with most lumpy, salty mysteries I find in or out of my mouth), but something told me to stay my jaws and wait. After a long morning of an open, dry jaw, I finally felt the tiny intrusion slip from my face. After shutting my mouth to let a torrent of soothing saliva rescue my tongue, I sniffed the ground below me.

What I found was a small cricket.

Perhaps small is not the right way to describe it (I have no idea if this cricket was small by cricket standards, but I do know that all crickets are small compared to me, trees, the sky, and even most mice). It was definitely a cricket, however small or big it might have been. It made a lovely chirping sound at me and then hopped away before I could ask any questions.

I did not put much more thought into the situation for the rest of the day. I was glad I had not accidentally eaten the cricket, but I also found its intrusion to be a tad bit inconvenient and somewhat unsettling.

Night came. I slept.

Day came. I woke up.

The cricket was in my mouth again.

I did not wait all morning to see if it would simply jump out this time. Instead, my tongue was its alarm clock as I pushed the cricket out of my mouth. It seemed startled, it chirped at me, and then it went on its way.

I must have made my point. The cricket never slept in my mouth again. I, at first, felt no remorse for my actions against the cricket. It was okay to sleep in my cave, I told myself, but I found it difficult to abide one sleeping inside my mouth without my explicit permission.

As the thought lingered in my mind, however, I contemplated how I sleep. I have never once asked my cave (and is not audacious for me to claim it my cave?) if I could sleep inside of it. I have napped on top of many things without explicit permission: dumpsters, abandoned campsites, piles of leaves, moss, a family of opossums (only once and by complete accident and nobody was permanently injured), on tree branches, and even under the sky.

I have never asked any of these things if I could have the privilege of using their personal vessels as my personal bed. And many of these things (except for the opossums anyway) tower in size compared to me as I did the cricket. I felt no need to ask something so massive for permission to rest on or under or inside of it, so why would the cricket feel it had to do the same with me?

I began to regret my hasty actions against the cricket, and I even considered how easy it could be for me to experience the cricket’s plight. After all, what could stop the cave in which I sleep from one day choosing to spit me out as I had done to the cricket?

Nothing.

Should the cave do so, I would be forced to leave.

The night of the same day I forced the cricket from my mouth, I went to sleep with my mouth open. Intentionally. I was awake for quite some time, waiting and hoping the cricket would show up and rest where it once must have felt so comfortable.

The cricket never came.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?