Tag Archives: bears

I saw two mice fighting today.

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mouse (2)

I did not know what to do. The two mice were hurling tiny, rage-filled fists at one another, tearing fur from skin, and biting. Their tiny shrieks of pain and anger echoed through the forest. I tried to make a fearsome growl at them to curb the violence, but it did not work. They kept going and going.

I watched.

Upset.

And helpless.

Finally, they stopped. I did not intervene here, either. I wanted each mouse to go its separate way, and I figured any intervention from me would be largely met with more violence in one way or another.

I could not tell if the mice were reconciling or just taking a break. The tension was agonizing.

And then a bird flew down and clenched its powerful talons around one of the mice. The two flew away. The remaining mouse then picked up a small kernel of corn and ran away.

All of that over a kernel of corn?

The violence. The shrieking. The terror.

Over some corn.

I had several questions:

Why not share the corn, mice?

Was losing one of you worth one tiny bit of corn?

Where did you even find corn in the forest?

Why fight so hard for something that is so insignificant?

I walked back to my cave with all of these thoughts swirling in my head. At first, I was quick to cast judgment upon both mice. After all, it was their violent tendencies that got one of them eaten by a bird. Why did they not put more consideration and care into that situation? Surely, two mice would be better at finding more corn than one, right? Is a fellow mouse not worth at least one kernel of corn?

I stuck to this line of thinking for awhile until I considered what I would do in that situation. What if another bear and I had stumbled upon the same rabbit skeleton? Would we share? Would we fight over it? Would we cooperate to find more? I like to believe I would be willing to help a fellow bear, but then again, I have never had to actually do any of this.

I have never had to compete with a bear. I rarely ever even see other bears, let alone violently fight with them over resources.

I have not been tested.

So why was I so quick to dismiss the struggle of the mice? I do not know how frequently mice have to fight one another for corn, but I do know that it has to be considerably more often than I have had to fight anyone for anything.

And mice have more to fight than just other mice, as I saw from the nightmarish claws of the bird who ate one of them. Nothing in the sky has ever tried to pick me up and eat me. I am fairly certain that there is nothing big enough to do something like that to me.

It is difficult to see the forest from eyes that are not bear eyes. I wish I could do so more easily. I wish it were easier to simply know the struggles of other creatures. I would like to know how the opossum I accidentally sat on the other day felt about that incident, though the high pitched shrieks were easy to interpret. I would like to know how others are impacted by my being a bear on a day-day-day basis. I would like to know the dangers wild rabbits face as they hop through logs and burrows. I would like know what fish feel. Even the ones I eat. Especially the ones I eat.

I cannot know these things, however. I am just the bear I am. I will try to understand these things and not be so critical of them from now on. I will also try to understand that being a bear might be easier than being a mouse who needs corn. Being a bear might even be easier than being an almost anything else so far as I have seen.

And I will try to find out where I can find corn in the forest. I would like some corn.

I am a bear.

To read more thoughts from this particular bear, interact with the blue or grey parts of this sentence.Also, be on the look out for a new bear adventure.

I think it is okay to not be good at some things.

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shame

I remember the first time I caught a fish in the river near my cave. I sat in front of the rushing liquid, watching ripples and bubbles caused by the creatures below. I stared for what felt like lifetimes. My front legs were drenched in river water and bits of dirt and grass. I knew the fish were unaware of my presence, but I still felt them mocking me and telling me how terrible I was at fishing, staring, understanding water, and being a bear. They never said anything of the sort, but I felt them think it.

My paw finally swiped one of the mocking fish. I felt its head crush under the thick padding of my paw. I dragged it toward me. For a split second, I felt awful for so swiftly ending another creature’s life, but I was far too hungry to dwell on the thought for too long.

I managed to fish. I was awful at it. I am still not too terribly good at it. It still takes me far too long to time my paws with the rush of the river. I still frequently find myself tripping into the water, scaring all of the fish away.

I am not good at fishing.

I am not good at a lot of things. I try many activities to pass the time in the forest, but I rarely find myself mastering any one of them. I still struggle with identifying bird calls. I am terrible at walking backwards. I usually fail to keep my fur shiny and smooth. I have a very hard time acquiring the proper footing to extensively climb trees.

I am not good at so many things.

When I am alone, being a bear by myself and the like, I am not bothered by my lack of expertise or mastery. Even though I certainly aspire to be good at things and spend a fair amount of time practicing said things, I am okay with my inability to enhance my skillset.

When I am not alone, however, being a bear with others around and the like, I am bothered by my lack of expertise.

Everyone else seems amazing at everything.

I stare in amazement as squirrels zip up trees with great agility. My jaw drops when I witness a bird of prey swoop down into the forest to snatch its meal. I am constantly impressed by the beauty and elegance exhibited by does as they graze the forest floor.

They are so good at eating grass.

And I will never be good at eating grass. At least not that good. I usually throw up when I eat grass. I am bad at eating grass.

It troubles me to be surrounded by expertise that I am not capable of acquiring myself. I want to be good at climbing, finding prey, and eating grass, but I simply am not. I once tried to ask a doe how she got so good at eating grass, but she quickly ran away as I approached. I am sure she would have told me the obvious, though: practice.

And I do. I practice many things, but I never feel like I have mastered any of it. I want to impress others in the forest. I want animals to see me and be amazed by my capacity to be a bear and do bear things. “There goes a bear,” the creatures would say. “He is marvelous at being a bear and doing the thing we are watching him do.”

I wonder what I look like while doing the things I practice on a daily basis. How do ants see me as they witness me try to eat grass? What do the lizards on the trees I climb think about me as I straddle the flimsy limbs and try not to fall? Is anyone impressed by the way I nap in my cave for many hours at a time? I feel like nobody is.

I want to be good at things. I want to be an expert at fishing and swimming and sleeping and eating. I want to, but I do not know if I ever will be. But whenever I find myself dwelling on that want of being a master of anything, I try to think about why I want it so bad.

Do I want to be good at fishing so I can catch fish easier? Not really. I do not mind being bad at catching fish. I really just like swishing my paws through the cool river water. I suppose I want to be good at fishing so others can be impressed by my ability to fish. Does it matter if others are impressed by me, though? Would it make my days easier or the grass on the ground tastier? I doubt it, yet I still crave it.

I need to be okay with what I am capable of. I need to embrace the bear that I am and not be ashamed of the bear I think others see. I need to do these things, but it is difficult. For now, I will keep trying to be a better bear while accepting that I might not ever be the impressive bear I want to be. I think that is okay.

I will also try to eat more grass without throwing up. I like to eat grass.

I am a bear.

To read more thoughts from this particular bear, interact with the blue or grey parts of this sentence.

Do not yell at trees.

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tree bear

You should not yell at trees for many reasons. First, and most importantly, they do not like it. While they have never vocalized this, I am eighty-four percent certain it is not a pleasant experience for them. Would you like to be yelled at? Of course not, and you are not even a tree.

If you would, for just a moment imagine being a tree: You are in the middle of a great forest surrounded by your brothers and sisters. A network of wildlife uses your body as a home and/or food source. You produce offspring and help the forest grow denser. You give shade to those who are too large to inhabit you. Some animals use you to mark territory or get rid of waste. Humans often deface you with strange carvings or, in horrible situations, try to take you out of the forest in cylindrical slabs. You have no defense mechanisms, but you must be strong at all times.

Despite being quite impressive and majestic, you are under constant duress to be something to everything.

Now that you are an imaginary tree and can empathize with the plight of trees, picture someone yelling at you. Perhaps your leaves were blown off your branches (something you had no control over) and they landed somewhere someone did not want them to land. Maybe your sap got on someone’s fur. Maybe someone just does not enjoy the texture of bark. Now, how would you feel if this hypothetical someone yelled at you for any of these reasons? Would you need that sort of pressure on top of all the other things you have going on in your life? Of course you would not.

The act of yelling at trees is simply pointless. It does not accomplish anything. You might think that yelling at a tree could be cathartic, but it does not make you feel any better. I know from first-paw experience.

I once tripped and tumbled, head first, into the base of an oak tree. Once I got to my feet, I loudly growled at the tree and asked why it felt the need to strike me. After a moment of silence, I felt ashamed for blaming the tree for my misfortune. After all, I was the one who tripped and tumbled. The tree had always been there. The same place. A constant for the forest. I was the one running about, causing unpredictable chaos. I tripped because of me.

What could I have expected from the tree anyway? If the absurd assumption that the tree was at fault was even remotely true, what could the tree do? No tree has never apologized (not that an apology from a tree has ever earnestly been needed), and this tree was not about to be the first to do so. My whiny howling did not deserve any response beyond what it received: just silence (or just the soft rustling of leaves in the wind).

Rob (the squirrel) once told me he yelled at a tree. He claimed that a tree had tried to run him over while he was crossing a street. I had no idea how or why a tree could or would do that. I also was not completely sure what a street was, but I did know that no tree could ever intentionally, upon its own will, do something so malicious.

I asked Rob (the squirrel) if yelling at the tree had made him feel better. He admitted it had not. He also admitted that the thing that had tried to run him over was likely not a tree. He then seemed embarrassed, which led to him hurling an acorn at my nose and running away. Even Rob (the squirrel), who is characteristically aggressive, blameless, and unashamed by nature, could not place blame on a tree.

Trees are your friends. Even if one falls over and smashes something you love, it is not the tree’s fault. They did not ask to be horizontal. In fact, I am seventy-six percent sure they abhor being anything but vertical. Unless you enjoy pointless acts and looking quite silly, please, do not yell at trees. There are better ways to spend your time.

I am a bear.

To read more thoughts from this particular bear, interact with the blue or grey parts of this statement. It would be fun.

It is nice to have things to remember.

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sun and moon (2)

I do not completely understand the purpose of remembering things. I know the ability can be useful sometimes. One time I buried a perfectly good rabbit skeleton next to an old, bug filled log. Several weeks later, I found myself wanting a rabbit skeleton to chew on in the middle of the night. I did not have one immediately, so I used a series of images and smells I remembered to go out and fetch the rabbit skeleton I buried by the log. If I had not had those memories, I would have had to find a brand new rabbit skeleton to chew on. Rabbit skeletons are not very easy to find.

However, for every rabbit skeleton my memories retrieve for me, they also do something that is not so useful or pleasant. All too often, I find myself suddenly remembering something terribly embarrassing for absolutely no reason. Even without putting any effort towards retrieving the memory, I will randomly be reminded of something I do not want to think about. I recently stopped lapping up water mid-drinking because remembering the time I accidentally ate a bee and it stung the inside of my cheek made me feel so embarrassed that I was felt stunned.

Why bother being able to remember embarrassing things? I already made the mistake or recovered from the particular instance of lapsed judgment, so why make me relive it? It seems like a cruel thing for memories to do. I suppose memories want you to be reminded so you will not make the same mistake again in the future, but surely there must be a better way to remind me of that than to make me relive my embarrassment and pain in such great detail.

There are other moments when memories fail to do what they are best at, which is reminding you of something. They might only remind you of parts of something important or just minute details that do not add up to a whole, coherent image. Memories will often only deliver moments of your life to your mind in sporadic, nearly nonsensical chunks. Fragments you have to put together as best you can. Pieces that will never quite fit together no matter how desperately you want them to.

I know I have not always been a single, lone bear. I know, at some point in my life, there were other bears with me. Large bears. Bears my size. Bears who licked the top of my head while I rested by the riverside. Bears who stood up on their hind legs with me, hurling their paws at my face in a playful manner. Bears who kept me safe. Kept me company. Kept me warm.

Those memories, the ones of the bears who must have been an important part of my life at some point, are scattered and difficult to recall. Those are the memories I want to recall, though. Those are the thoughts I want to be randomly reminded of while I sip river water. The fragments of those thoughts are so difficult to hold together, though. Sometimes I even doubt they are real. Maybe I made them up myself. I do not know.

I am still grateful that my head lets me have memories, though. Despite how painful or distant some of them might be, there are still many that are an absolute joy to have and cherish. One of my favorites happened late in the afternoon of an otherwise very regular day. The sun, with its lovely warmth and glow, was beginning to rest into the horizon. At the same time, the moon, with its proudly pale light, was beginning to rise from the horizon. For a little while, the two giants, who normally represented completely different feelings and ideas and temperatures for me, shared the sky above the trees. I stared at the scene for as long as it persisted.

Then a tiny a gnat got caught in my eye, a part of that memory that I feel more distinctly and vividly than any other from that moment.

I am a bear.

You can read more bear thoughts by clicking these lovely blue words.

There are foxes.

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fox dead (2)

The first thing I saw when I was roused from my third nap yesterday was Susan (the rabbit) hopping frantically by my nose in an attempt to gain my attention. I sat up with a yawn and a sneeze (something she was not too fond of) and asked what was so important.

Susan (the rabbit) hopped up onto my belly and placed her front paws around my muzzle.

I had to sneeze again, but the sheer look of terror in her eyes subsided the urge. I did not want to upset her any further.

There was a long moment of silence as Susan (the rabbit) tried to gather her thoughts. Something was important enough to wake me, and whatever it was had petrified her.

In the gentlest tone I could muster, I asked what was wrong. Why was she so scared? Is a third nap really a nap if it lasts longer than four hours? Or at that point is it just sleep?

Susan (the rabbit)’s voice quivered. “There are foxes,” she squeaked. She seemed to not have a response to my questions about naps.

I continued my line of questioning by asking: What sort of boxes? Was there food in said boxes? Could she take me to them? Does she require assistance in transporting the boxes? Can the boxes be napped upon?

She hopped off my belly and sighed. “No,” she said, “foxes. There are foxes.”

This, of course, was no revelation to me. I was quite aware of the presence of foxes in the forest, albeit I have never met one who was in a non-carcass form. I am certain that non-carcass foxes are far more interesting (and certainly more lively) than their carcass counterparts. Because of the possibility of meeting a non-carcass fox, Susan (the rabbit)’s claim piqued my interest enough for me to postpone my third nap until it was time for a fourth nap.

I got up, stretched my paws, and started out of the cave when Susan (the rabbit) hopped in front of me. I asked her why she was stopping me.

“Please, don’t go,” she begged. Her ears were curled around her tiny head like some sort of sad hat. “There are foxes.”

I told her that I was well aware of this and that she had already said as much.

“You don’t understand, bear,” Susan (the rabbit) shook her head grimly.

Apparently, I did not. Susan (the rabbit)’s limited information and/or vocabulary did not quell my curiosity. If there really were foxes beyond my cave walls, I wanted to meet them.  I would love to discover what they did for fun, what it is like being orange, how it feels to not be a carcass, etc.

Despite her request, I strolled past Susan (the rabbit) and headed out of the cave and into the forest.

I expected to see a dozen or so black-tipped tails wagging in anticipation to meet me, but I was only met by Francis (the coyote) sitting on his haunches. His eyes were closed as he gave the air exploratory sniffs. I decided to join him and began to smell my surroundings.

This went on for a few minutes before we said hello to one another.

“Hello, bear,” Francis (the coyote) said with a nod. “Seen Susan (the rabbit) anywhere?”

I heard a fretful squeak behind me as Susan (the rabbit) hunkered down behind my rear legs. I told him yes and stepped aside so Francis (the coyote) could see where Susan (the rabbit) had gone.

Francis (the coyote)’s reddened muzzle curled up into a bright smile. Clumps of white fur fell to the ground as he did so.

I asked him where all the foxes were. Had he scared them away? I still wanted to meet one.

“No foxes out here,” Francis (the coyote) said. “Just me.” His smiled widened, exposing a series of yellow teeth speckled with crimson. Bits of bone protruded between them. He must have just eaten lunch.

I turned to Susan (the rabbit) and told her there were no foxes. There was just Francis (the coyote). I explained to her that she could have easily mistaken him for a fox, though. The red mess on his face mixed with the bit of white fur gave his head a lovely, orangey hue.

Susan (the rabbit) suddenly bit my nose and hopped away into the forest. Francis (the coyote) followed her.

I shouted a goodbye to the two of them. Hopefully, they enjoyed the rest of their day together.

I plopped down in the dirt by my cave to contemplate my nap schedule for the rest of the day, when a wave of disappointment washed over me. I wished there had been foxes. They seemed like wonderful creatures. Suddenly, a second emotion swept away disappointment in what I can only describe as not-happiness. What if there have never been foxes? What if they were carcasses and nothing more? Does being a carcass make them less fox or, in some terrible way, more fox?

Is there some way to discover if I will become more or less of a bear when I am no longer moving around? Will there be a breakdown of the very fiber of my bearness on a molecular level? Will my bearness transcend this plain of existence and arrive where there might be non-carcass foxes?

When will I meet foxes?

There was no way to really tell, so I decided to sniff the dirt by my cave for awhile and then take another nap. I still do not know why Susan (the rabbit) bit me.

I am a bear.

You can read more bear thoughts by clicking these lovely blue words.

There probably is not a lot of everything.

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moss man (3)

There is only so much of everything, probably. It is hard to understand that by simply looking around. Trees and sticks and leaves and birds and air as far as the eye can see or the nose can smell, all of these things seem too vast and numerous to ever not be the things they are. And the seemingly infinite number of these things tricks me into thinking I might be infinite, too. After all, I am also made up of many things (fur, teeth, nose, etc.).

Everything eventually stops being the thing it is, though. All of the trees fall over and all of the birds crash into the ground and all of the air stops being nice to smell and all of the me will probably fall over and not move anymore eventually. I do not know what any of it turns into (if any of it turns into anything at all), but I do know everything eventually stops being what it is. Everything runs out of what it is.

Part of me gets sad when I think about this. I mourn the finite and wish it could be not so final in some way or another. The thought has kept me up at nights in my dark, damp cave. Even with the calming smell of mold and the cool night air twirling around my fur, I often still find myself staring blankly into the bleak emptiness of my cave, its nothingness reminding me how, eventually, everything (even the particular nothing I stare at) might be nothing some day. Sometimes I get confused by the idea of nothing turning into more nothing (is it just a different kind of nothing or even more nothing on top of nothing?), yet I welcome that confusion over the emptiness of the thought that led to it.

Sometimes I swat at the nothing with an angry paw in the middle of the night, hoping some brute force can stop the thought from crawling into my mind. There is a pile of chipped claws near a particularly dark part of my cave. One time I ate them. They were salty.

I do not want to become nothing. I guess that is what it comes down to.

I also do not want anything else to become nothing.

When I am not recycling the same sad idea over and over until I fall asleep, another part of me wants to find ways to fix or, at the very least, put off the sadness of everything running out of itself. I do this by finding things I fear could turn into nothing and caring for them.

For example, I watched over a sad looking raccoon for awhile once. I followed it from tree to tree and from dumpster to dumpster, ensuring it was safe from the anger of nature or the sadness of itself. I made sure nobody followed the creature into its den and that no snakes were around as it looked for berries in a bushel. I even stood outside of the dumpster it was foraging from until it spotted me and ran away. I lost track of the raccoon after that. I hope it is not nothing now. And I hope it did not mind me taking the bread covered in red sauce that I found in the dumpster. I ate it. It was salty.

I tried saving some sticks from nothingness, too. I found three sticks (very good ones) and tried to put them under my belly for warmth and protection from the elements.

They broke under my belly.

I do not know if breaking in half makes a stick turn into nothing, but if it does, I did a very terrible thing with the best intentions.

Of course, there was the baby bird I found in my cave as well. I had no intention of stopping nothingness from swallowing the baby bird when I first met it. That idea was not part of my thinking at the time. I was so busy enjoying thingness that I had no time for even considering nothingness. Maybe that carelessness lead to what happened to the baby bird. I am sure I could have done more.

I know it is impossible to save anything from possibly being nothing eventually. I understand that horrible, relentless, fear-inducing fact, but I cannot help continuously becoming upset and obsessed over it. No matter how frequently I try to think of good things (bread, warm dirt, soft grass, moss pillows, etc.) while I rest in my cave during the night, that dark nothingness I stare at still haunts me and makes me want to try stopping it from becoming more nothingness.

I should at least stop swatting at it. And I should probably not eat my own claws.

I am a bear.

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I would like some more friends.

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friend list (2)

I wish I had more friends. Despite its diverse inhabitants, the forest can be quite lonely. Especially at night, when all I can hear are crickets in the distance, chirping their songs. I could venture out to greet them, perhaps ask how their evenings are going or swap twig-soup recipes, but we all know crickets have notoriously short tempers and are quick to profane tirades regarding the value of their non-musical legs. I harbor no ill will toward them, but crickets are simply not friend material for someone like me.

I have been reviewing possible friendship candidates in the forest for the past few days. Rob (the squirrel) reluctantly helped me. He commented, however, that his squirrel feelings were hurt. He felt that he was more than enough friend for me. I had to explain to Rob (the squirrel) that our relationship would not change. We would still share acorns and he could sleep in my fur on chilly nights, but I needed to explore options. I needed more companions in my life. Surely there is a badger or an owl or a deer (well, maybe not a deer) out there who shares common interests with me. Someone I could confide in and with whom I could make new memories. Rob (the squirrel) responded to this line of thinking by hurling an acorn at my eye and hissing at me. He can be strange.

After much deliberation, I complied a short list of potential friends. They are the following:

  • Susan (the rabbit)
  • Franklyn (the stray tabby cat missing an ear)
  • Bernard (the opossum)
  • A red bird I saw
  • A bunch of napkins I found in a dumpster
  • Some sleeping bags I left dirt in once
  • Ants?
  • Not snakes

Rob (the squirrel) looked over the list. With an unimpressed scoff, he gave me a grimace and ran up a tree, leaving me alone to wonder which name jotted in the dirt near my cave insulted him. I would bet on Bernard. Or maybe that red bird I saw. I suppose it did not matter, though it is not great to see Rob (the squirrel) have hurt feelings. He does not take rejection (or any negative feeling for that matter) very well.

As I stared at the names on the list, something occurred to me: perhaps they can all be my friend. In fact, could not every creature and object I meet (except for the deer by the river and he knows why) be my friend? Elated, I chewed on my paws for a moment before running out into the forest to proclaim our friendship.

On my way to find a clearing (somewhere with soft grass and optimal sunlight) another revelation struck me. If anything and everything can be a friend, then can we not be friends? You, reading this right now, can we be friends?

I am a bear. What are you? Whatever you are, would you like to be my friend? You can still continue being a whatever you are. Being my friend should not change that (I think). I will give you time to think about it. If you decide you want to be my friend, feel free to etch your name in the dirt near my cave. If you do not know how to spell your name, please just leave a checkmark. I will get the point.

But if one of you is the deer across the river, do not leave your name, hoof print, or antler debris anywhere near my cave. If you try to leave any markings, they will be deleted from the dirt. If you try to poke the dirt with a stick, the indentation will be ignored. Even if you are friends with Rob (the squirrel) on his cave dirt (and I am pretty sure he has his own) and he vouches for you, we will not be friends. Never. You are not my friend, and I am not your friend.

As for everyone else, I would love to be your friend. While I wait for your friend approvals, I will roll around in the sun-baked grass. So please, take your time, friends. I know I will.

I am a bear.

You can read more bear thoughts by clicking the words you are currently reading.

More Human Questions, More Bear Answers

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I frequently get questions through Twitter and Facebook about various things. Whether it is life as a bear, things about the forest, bear advice, or personal questions, humans and (possibly) other creatures are always curious about all aspects of bear living. While I am not here to represent all bears, I do like to respond to these questions as best I can by using my personal experiences and viewpoints. I decided it might be nice to answer some more.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/GramrgednAngel/status/560129494443630592

Bear Answer:
I have seen so many rocks, so it is hard to keep track of every single one of them. I did see one that I thought was shaped like a bear from afar. When I got closer, it was actually not shaped like a bear. It was also not a rock. It was actually a very angry raccoon holding a rock and hissing at me. And we were in a dumpster together. That was probably the neatest looking rock I have ever seen. Maybe.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Probably not. One time I put some cans I found into a hole I dug and waited for rain. Does that count?

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/DanMoffTarkin/status/560129882576138240

Bear Answer:
I once thought I had found an entrance to another dimension or some kind of time-warp, but it was actually an abandoned tent with a mother opossum nursing her children. I only know that because Rob (the squirrel) jumped inside, shouting something about going back in time and saving the prehistoric squirrel. He quickly ran out and reported a very angry opossum and several newborns. I hope that family of opossums is still living there, happy and healthy. Oh, and one time I found an acorn with two mismatched halves for a cap. That was fun, too.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I highly recommend rolling around on the ground for several minutes or until you get too dizzy to keep rolling. If you have done that already (you probably have), you should consider talking to as many trees as you possibly can. Trees have great things to say and are very open to sharing their thoughts and experiences.

Human Questions:

https://twitter.com/brianhicks/status/560136024039235584

Bear Answer:
Moss is maybe one of the greatest gifts of the forest. It is not secretly wet, it is openly wet (usually), which makes it great for chewing on, resting on, and smelling. It also looks wonderful with its relaxing grey and dark-green colors, making it perfect for constructing a hat or a lovely scarf. Moss is amazing. I highly recommend moss. Any kind of moss. I actually do not know if there are different types of moss, but if there are, you should try them all.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/german68/status/560131335239790592

Bear Answer:
I have never met any mountain goats, but I am sure you can trust them. And even if they wrong you (and you know there’ll always be a few things, maybe several things, that you’re going to find difficult to forgive), there’s going to be a day you feel better.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
You can eat snow.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/infamy_infamy/status/560133503053205504

Bear Answer:
I do not have a five-year-plan. I understand it is good to plan and to have goals, but I usually try to enjoy whatever event or thing currently occupies my time. This is not always easy either, however. It is very easy to get distracted by what you do not know or want to know or know too well. I still try, despite often failing, to enjoy the taste of the tree I am licking or the fact that I am not being mocked by deer or the faint glow the moon has when it shines through a lightly cloudy night. Your five-year-plan should probably be to just do your best. Not much more can be asked of bears, or even human I would guess.

Human Questions:

Bear Answer:
The wind is very loud and very pleasant and makes your fur stand up and smells neat. I like the wind.

Human Questions:

https://twitter.com/NotGlennDanzig/status/560129894978715648

Bear Answer:
Smelling things. Licking new things. Finding new smells. Finding new tastes. Looking at things. Digging holes.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
It is important to look for things to eat everywhere you go. Always keep your nose up and sniffing. If you are still truly unable to find anything to eat, you might need to ask for help. If you are kind enough and lucky enough, you might be able to find a friendly squirrel or raccoon who will not attack you and instead share their own findings. It is always better to ask for help than to go hungry. Being hungry is not fun.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I try not to think about it too much, but it is a realization I have had. It is not an easy thing to have in your brain as you try to traverse the forest in a peaceful manner. It is completely out of my control, however. If there were more I could do in a meaningful way, I would. I just try to occupy my brain with other thoughts.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Bees and I do not usually get along very well.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
If you are being attacked by panic, the best thing to do is to remember that whatever is causing your panic to attack you is probably not always going to be making your panic attack you. Whatever it is, it will probably one day not be around, making your panic do awful things like attack you. You are not stuck. Also, try to think about trees or finding food in a trash can or moss or other lovely things that calm you down in moments of intense stress.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I think you should be more open to sharing the berries. Always share your berries.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/Siryetiwarrior/status/560199319069130752

Bear Answer:
Not that I know of.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/jkruppe15/status/560134161865138176

Bear Answer:
Regardless of gender, please do not urinate on or near bears. I would also suggest utilizing your mouth in order to make human speech patterns. I believe that is how most humans do it.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Yes.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/mercythekitty/status/560176167173771264

Bear Answer:
Are you sure that was a rock? Rocks do not usually pinch unless they are under a lot of pressure.

Human Question:

Bear Question

Bear Answer:
Rob (the squirrel) is the only squirrel who talks to me. I see other squirrels all the time, but they seem too vested in whatever acorn related businesses they are working on to spare any time for me. Perhaps they have other bears to talk to.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Grow as much fur as you like until you feel you have grown enough. There is no such thing as too much fur. You should survey your current body mass and decide whether it is best to increase or decrease your size based on what other activities you decide to do besides foraging

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I am absolutely content with being a bear. However, I sometimes wish I had thumbs. Thumbs would be nice.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/vanilIite/status/560132843247251457

Bear Answer:
Of course. My moves consist mostly or rolling around on the forest floor, shaking my head, and tumbling. I call it the Doing the Bear. You should try it at home

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I have endured many struggles as a bear. But I would say the toughest has been trying to get all the peanut butter out of a discarded jar. My tongue only goes but so far. Parting with the unattainable remnants at the bottom of a jar is the hardest thing I have experienced. That and coping with the deaths of fellow woodland creatures. That is hard, too.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/Sethythebear/status/560186136329728001

Bear Answer:
Being a bear… And fur. Lots of fur.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Birds.  I am certain birds carry on conversations with the moon as they sing and whistle throughout the night and day. Who else would the moon talk to? Not me, apparently. I would like to talk to the moon.

 

Thank you, again, for asking me questions. I am always so taken aback by how interested many of you seem to be in my life as a bear. I apologize if I did not get to your question. There were so many to choose from.

I hope you enjoyed my responses. If you need more bear things in your life, you can read my bear thoughts on Twitter or try being a bear with my choose-your-own-bear-adventure story. I look forward to answering more of your questions sometime in the future.

Thank you.

-A bear

You are a bear. Do not let the baby bird die.

1 Reply

You are a bear. Your day, so far, has revolved around very bear things. You ate. You slept. You stared at a tree that had a very interesting branch on it. You ate again. You talked to a turtle who had interesting opinions about rocks and where they come from (the sky, he claimed).

It is a normal day for you, a bear.

Until you come back to your cave after remembering that you had a few berries hidden under some leaves waiting for you. Your intent was to come to your cave, eat the berries, perhaps nap, and then be back on your way to the forest to do more bear things. Your plans are suddenly shifted once you see a tiny bird sitting in your cave.

It is very small, this bird. Its feathers are covered in dirt and forest debris. Its eyes are closed. Its beak looks weathered, almost chipped. This tiny bird appears to be having a very hard time being a tiny bird. It looks like a baby. A baby bird.

Where is its mother or father?

Where is its nest?

Why is it here?

Does it need water?

Do rocks actually come from the sky?

You do not know the answer to any of these questions, but the last one is very far-fetched no matter how convincing and wise that turtle seemed to be.

The baby bird makes a terrible whistle/cough/hacking sound that you did not know birds could even make.

You choose to…

Human Questions, Bear Answers

1 Reply

Recently, I asked some humans if they had any questions about being a bear or needed advice from a bear. I received many questions from many lovely humans searching for bear guidance, help, information, and companionship. I responded to as many as I could here. I am sorry if I did not get to your question. I will try answering more at another time. Please enjoy!

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/andrewknoc/status/539530081400393728

Bear Answer:
Carefully and with great strain. Sometimes I use my tongue.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/heywriterboy/status/539530084227756032

Bear Answer:
Why would you want to get rid of something that smells so lovely? There is really no need to not have wet fur.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/FaustMN/status/539530098031230976

Bear Answer:
Do not throw rocks at me.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/asameshimae/status/539530142109167616

Bear Answer:
Not that I know of, no.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
The best thing to do is not always the easiest. For example, one time I ate a plastic bag I found in the dumpster because it had some peanut butter in it. Eating that plastic bag was one of the hardest things I have ever done, yet I knew it was the right thing to do. If what you are changing does more good than harm, then maybe you are doing something right. Unless that harm is something really bad like suffocating baby animals or killing the sun or saying something mean to the moon. Then you should rethink things. Ultimately, my advice: always eat the plastic bag if it has even the slightest amount of peanut butter inside it and if the plastic bag is not going to suffocate a baby animal. Always.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/meek_the_geek/status/539530193807749120

Bear Answer:
I only recommend taking selfies with me if you have an offering to go along with it. If you give me bread or a very well sculpted rabbit skeleton as a gift, I believe you have earned a picture with me. I do not know why you would want a picture with me, but I do not want to belittle what you consider an achievement.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/SVMelton/status/539530212313415680

Bear Answer:
I wish I knew the answer to this. They look like kind and gentle creatures (because of their fluffy tails), but no creature is more untrustworthy than a squirrel.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Yes.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I do not know any other bears, and I have limited experiences with them. I do have other forest companions (even Rob (the squirrel) despite his disposition), but I do spend a great deal of time alone. This time is usually spent staring at things, trying to understand things, or smelling things. A lot of my time is spent smelling things.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
One of my earliest memories is of a moment when I was sitting next to a tiny bear. I, too, was a tiny bear at the time. I remember asking the tiny bear what we were supposed to be doing as bears. It did not say anything to me. It just licked my face and then walked away. I do not remember ever seeing that bear again. So, I guess other bears are fine if not a tad bit strange.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I believe that if everyone focused more on sleeping and eating and smelling new smells, then there would be much more peace around the world. Though squirrels and deer would likely ruin it. Because of squirrels and deer, world peace is probably impossible.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/unrealfred/status/539530843048652800

Bear Answer:
You become a bear by being a bear. I wish I had a more thorough answer for you.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Maybe you should go, despite any trouble it might bring. Though staying might lead to at least twice the amount of trouble the previously mentioned going would. You are on your own with this one.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
They are unpredictable. One minute a raccoon will be bringing you piles of leaves for you to sleep on, the next it will be hissing at you because there is not enough room in the dumpster you are sharing with it. They have violent mood swings but can also be good friends.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
If you are a bear, you can be a bear. So just ask yourself: am I a bear? If you answer yes, you are likely a bear. Enjoy your time in the forest.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I generally eat too much of everything I eat. And everything I eat tends to be my favorite thing to eat. Therefore, I always eat too much of my favorite thing to eat. The only time this behavior backfires on me is when I eat too much of something I probably should not eat (e.g. rocks, pieces of wood, and cardboard).

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:

I am not sick of it, but it does seem very strange to me. I realize that all of our bodies must do something to that effect at some point in time. And I also realize that the natural environment for me to do that in would be the forest. However, many people still have questions about that process. I cannot fault their curiosity.

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Honey is very good, but you have to fight bees to get it. That can take a severe mental and physical toll, so I usually do not indulge in honey. Bees are good creatures, so killing them en masse for some delicious nectar seems far too aggressive.

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/Mivena/status/539539334626832384

Bear Answer:
I do not recommend being a dinosaur. Try to be something better and less dead like a opossum or a ladybug or maybe even a tree.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
I have not seen Rob (the squirrel) in a couple of days. However, I am always suspicious of his presence. I must be constantly vigilant in my pursuit to avoid his tricks and upsetting behavior. Squirrels are tricky.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/ryanwilson616/status/539537333314256896

Bear Answer:
Having claws is very lovely. You can grab fruit more easily and scratch trees. I think everyone should have a good set of claws.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/websterwolf/status/539533752884797440

Bear Answer:
Black. I think. Maybe grey-ish black-ish? I am not entirely sure. I am a bear.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/icecoldrosegold/status/539532461609607169

Bear Answer:
My advice on how to approach female humans is the same advice I would give on approaching male humans: wait for the humans to leave their camping grounds and eat their marshmallows because marshmallows are very hard to find in the forest but they must be easy for humans to find because they always seem to have marshmallows. Why do you humans always have marshmallows? Please tell me how to get them without stealing from you.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Only by accident.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Pet it. It has probably had a rough life.

 

Human Question:

https://twitter.com/coalhouse/status/539548517686337537

Bear Answer:
Yes. No. I do not blame you for having that fear.

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
Squeeze harder or stop squeezing so hard (depending on what the recipient of the hug is complaining about since hug feedback is a very important aspect of hugging culture).

 

Human Question:

Bear Answer:
A pristine rabbit skeleton balances the dark emptiness of any cave, making it must easier to think and focus while you rest in your domicile (I assume you live in a cave).

 

Thank you for asking so many wonderful questions. Again, I am sorry if I did not get to yours personally (there were quite a few). I will try to answer more at another time. For now, you can go look at more of my bear thoughts on Twitter or try being a bear with my choose-your-own-bear-adventure story.

-A bear