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Fuzziness matters.

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rubs (2)

Fuzziness is an important aspect of who I am and how I see myself as an individual creature of the forest. My ears are fuzzy. My belly is fuzzy. My neck is fuzzy. Even my paws are fuzzy, which is strange considering they are also leathery and tough. Paws are strange, but we are not here to discuss paws. We are here to discuss fuzziness.

How do I maintain the fuzziness of my fur? This is an important question for any creature who is given the gift of a thick coat of lovely hairs. I cannot speak for all creatures of the forest, but my fuzziness is maintained through a regiment of important daily processes.

Allow me to elaborate.

I spend a great deal of time every single morning rubbing my fur onto something with an interesting texture. Sometimes I seek out the smooth edges of a pebbles to help slick back my fur. Other times I look for something jagged and scratchy like the side of a tree or the side of a rusted dumpster. These rough textures also help alleviate various itches I might feel at the base of my fur. They ruffle my fur, too, making my fuzziness much more messy than usual, but the feeling of the means are worth the awkward looking ends.

I once dragged an old, ragged piece of a carpet I found into my cave. I spent a great deal of time rubbing all of my fur against it. It was one of the best things I had ever found in a dumpster, and I loved every minute I spent with my fur practically glued to its surface. Unfortunately, I eventually had to dispose of that prize after several raccoons ate most of it. I stopped them from completely devouring it, but what was left was hardly enough to maintain my fuzziness.

Water is also important part of fuzziness. Though fur smells incredible after rolling around and basking in many weeks’ worth of forest odors, it is occasionally nice to refresh and revitalize that fur with some clear, cool river water. At first, it seems counterintuitive. When fur is wet, it ceases to have fuzziness. It becomes drenched and loses everything that defines fuzzy. Once the water dries, however, the fuzziness feels crisp, clean, and brand new. I do this process minimally, though. I have a great deal of pride in the collection of smells and debris I collect as I traverse through the forest, and I do not take lightly the idea of trading all of that in just for some wet fur.

Furthermore, this process also means having to see the deer across the river. Oh, how vile that creature is with its ghastly, empty stare. It knows what it did. It will never forget what it did. I will never forget what it did.

I apologize for the digression.

Another great way to maintain fuzziness is to seek out a symbiotic relationship with another creature and/or find a very good friend. For a very long time, no less than three mice (one large one and two tiny ones) resided in a tuft of fur on my back. Their warmth and tiny hands soothed and combed my back fur. I did not let them go uncompensated, too. As often as I could, I would toss small berries or patches of grass onto the tuft by slinging them with my mouth. This beautiful relationship lasted until the tiny mice outgrew the large mouse. They ended up arguing and fighting over the rations of berries and grass. The quarrels became so terrible that their violent squeaks would keep me up at night. I finally evicted them from my body lying on my side and shaking. They quickly scattered into the forest, which was unfortunate because I would have liked to at least formally meet them before they left for good.

I sometimes ask other forest creatures if they would be willing to fill in where the mice left off, but I can find no takers. Those relationships are rare, so if you are lucky enough to find one, make sure you nurture it to the best of your abilities.

Fuzziness matters. It is not simply an issue of aesthetics either. How my fur interacts with my environment says a lot about who I am, and I truly hope all other creatures of the forest take their fuzziness as seriously as I do.

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?

Do squirrels ever regret things? Probably not.

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rob nut

Some say life is full of regret.

Not this bear’s life. My life is full of naps and acorn counting. Surely whatever woodland creature made such a negative utterance has done some terrible things or, at the very least, some things that made him/her feel terrible. While I would never claim to be Saint Bear of the Forest, I do feel that I have lived a good life thus far, and I have no plans on changing that.

It does make me wonder if maybe deep down I am not a good bear at all. Is my lack of regret actually a sign of internal villainy?

Do villains have regret for their villainous actions?

I asked Rob (the squirrel) what he thought, but he merely wrung his hands together and chuckled maniacally. It was a valid answer but not really the one I was looking for.

Rob (the squirrel), who has been known for mild villainy on occasion (mostly to ants and grasshoppers) seemed to be devoid of regret. Did we share the same moral compass? The thought perturbed me. As much as I consider Rob (the squirrel) a good friend, I did not want to be lumped into the same emotional maturity level as he. Surely he felt regret about something.

After some prodding (and light fur licking) Rob (the squirrel) said he regretted many things. He elaborated with the regalement of the time he stole seven sunflower seeds from a mouse family. They were storing them for the winter. Rob (the squirrel) felt so guilty he tried to return the seeds the following day only to discover the mouse family had been ravaged by a hungry Hawk. In the wake of this tragedy, he proceeded to eat the seeds with a clear conscious and never dwelled on the mouse family’s fate again.

I told him I didn’t think that sounded like regret.

Rob (the squirrel) shrugged his little grey shoulders, bit my nose, and scampered up a tree.

Alone, I began to dwell on my past actions. I began to wonder if there was anything I had done for which I wanted forgiveness. Did I require atonement for some past sin?

No. I couldn’t think of anything.

Either I was a sociopath or a saint. Sainthood seemed less likely. There was a third option, however: perhaps I block out every bad thing I do to protect myself from feeling regret and remorse. That was an interesting thought, but I had no memories or evidence to entertain it.

Then, like an acorn being hurled at my head from the top branch of a tree, it hit me: I did have regret that I could recall. At least a little of it.

Last week I found an ant hill ripe for eating. I remember dragging my tongue across their mount, lapping up dozens of little workers with each passing. I stood there for quite some time enjoying the spoils of my discovery.

After I thought I had my fill, I left the ant hill alone and wandered off to take a nap. When I woke up, I was hungry again. I tried to locate what was left of the ant hill, but I could not find it. Perhaps I had licked too much of it. But in reality, I felt like I didn’t eat enough ants. I wished that I had. There: that is regret.

I regret not having eaten more ants.

Suddenly, I felt better. I was comfortable in my own fur again. I had regret. Which was normal.

I wondered if I ate the deer by the river, if I would regret it later.

Probably not. He knows what he did.

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?

 

I probably had a mom.

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bear mom

I cannot remember, exactly, what my mom was like. I know she, like me, was a bear. I know she occasionally licked my fur for me. I know she showed me how to climb a tree. I know she smelled like dirt, which is lovely.

I also know, at some point, she was no longer part of my life. I know I was with other bears like me one day and then not with them on another day. What happened between those two bookend memories is a mystery to me. Not knowing what happened in that empty space leads to me doubting everything before as well. How much of what I remember of my mom (which is already limited to vague images and smells and sounds) is made up? How much actually happened?

Is my mom a ghost bear?

I do not know, but it is a better supported idea than anything else I have. If she is (was) a ghost, at least she is something more than just loosely put together, possibly unreal thoughts in my mind.

I have dreams about her sometimes. It is usually the same dream. I am me, but I am a tiny me, perfectly proportioned. A large bear is holding me against her belly fur and saying something very softly to me. I cannot understand it, but I know it makes me feel good and warm and never sad and always hugged. The dream never lasts long, and it is usually alarming to go from it to my dark cave, alone, not being held by a large bear.

Why do my dreams do that, though? I do not understand the reason for reminding me of something that makes me feel like I am missing an important piece of who I am or what being a bear is. If it never happened, then what parts of my past experiences are my dreams stitching together to create those images and sounds and feelings? And if it did happen, why can I not remember it, specifically or in any discernible detail? There is such a noisy blankness that rests in my memories, showing nothing decipherable but reminding me of something that must have mattered.

I cannot be a mother bear, so I do not know the thoughts or considerations that go into bear motherhood. I am certain that raising a cub or two at a time is no easy thing, but is it intentional to eventually leave your cubs without a trace of the warmth or nurturing you once provided? Is it how cubs grow into bears? Is it hard? Is it necessary? It must be necessary. I hope it is necessary.

I do not know if even being able to remember the split from my mom I must have experienced would help me at all. Perhaps I would just have dreams of that instance if I could remember the exact moment. Dreams of whatever loneliness or abandonment I must have felt the moment I ceased being a bear cub. The moment everything probably started being difficult. Those dreams would probably not be as comforting as the ones where I am being held up against belly fur, feeling good and warm and never sad and always hugged.

I remember seeing a group of bears wander the forest once. Two tiny ones being shadowed by a big one, a mother bear. I followed them for awhile (for selfish reasons at first since they probably had food or were going to food).The mother bear cautiously traversed the dense forest, moving branches to help her cubs and acting as an impenetrable shield against potential predators. One of the cubs tripped and rolled down a hill at one point. The mother bear followed, licked the little one’s scruffy fur, and helped push it back up the hill.

They finally reached the river. The mother bear began showing the cubs how to swim and hurl their tiny paws into the water for fish. I was near a tree away from the river when she saw me. She gave me a knowing glance and then quickly ignored me. I left.

I am a bear.

“Boris the Bear’s Circus Adventure Extravaganza of Suffer for Lonely, No” is the latest adventure you can read on helloiamabear.com! Please enjoy!

I took a nap on some ants.

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ants (2)

I took a nap on some ants. I did not do so out of malice. In fact, it was never my intention to sleep on ants at all. Sometimes, when spontaneous naps strike you, the number of ideal places to lay your fuzzy head dwindle. A bear (me, for example) must work with what is around them. In this case, what seemed to be comfiest place on the forest floor was an ant hill.

The tiny mound looked soft and inviting. Little did I know, my carelessness would cause a kingdom to fall.

I woke to the sound of hundreds of tiny voices crying out in terror, pining over the destruction of their home. I sat up to survey the damage. It was severe and undeniably horrible.

What had I done?

A few surviving colonists clung to my nose. Some were frantically shouting in my face. A few were biting me. But the pain they inflicted upon my muzzle was nothing compared the remorse that filled my heart.

I begged for their forgiveness, but there was none to be had. The ants could not let this atrocity go unpunished. With tears welling in my eyes, I accepted whatever fate the small insects had planned for me. There was much deliberation over what course of action to take.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, one of the ants simply said, “You must rebuild, bear. Make right your wrongs.”

I agreed. I told them it was only fair. Reconstruction would begin immediately (after I finished my nap, of course). Tiny cries of protest ringed in my ears. Some more nose biting occurred.

Realizing I would not get to complete the grievous act that led to my punishment in the first place, I set out into the forest to find supplies. I came back with the essentials for any reconstruction

  • Leaves
  • Six sticks
  • Napkins covered in some kind of spicy sauce
  • Three ribs from a rabbit skeleton I had been saving for a special occasion
  • Dirt in an empty aluminum can that I chewed on

I placed the tools on the ground before the displaced ants.

“What’s this?” asked one of them.

Certain these ants had never encountered such items (with the exception of dirt; they seemed to be very familiar with that), I explained what they were.

One of the ants suggested they rebuild the hill themselves. It was a bit insulting. Now, I will be the first to admit I have never built an ant hill, but I suspected their structure could not have been too complex. After all, it looked like a cone dirt pillow. I had made many piles of dirt into lovely pillows for nothing more than my own enjoyment. Surely this would be no different.

I was terribly wrong.

It turned out ants are very competent builders. There was so much beneath the surface I did not understand. After trying to shove the saucy napkins into an opening of the collapsed hill, the ants told me to stop. I had done enough.

I thanked them for the opportunity to try my hand at a new trade. They did not reply kindly. Instead, they demanded I leave behind the leaves, the can full of dirt, and one of the rabbit ribs (for some strange reason).

Feeling slightly accomplished (and slightly beaten down), I trotted back to my cave to resume my nap. As the blanket of sleep began to fall over me, I wondered if other complex things in the world seemed so simple at face value. I am a bear, and inside, I am still a bear (I think). Is Rob (the squirrel) a squirrel on the inside or is his squirrelness simply a facade?  Where does the outer layer of reality stop and why can our core beings be that outer layer? Why did the ants want my aluminum can?

I woke up a few hours later, hungry. As I exited my cave to do some foraging, I stepped on a wasp nest that had fallen from a tree.

Wasps are not as complex as ants or squirrels or bears. They like to sting things. That is about it.

I am a bear.

“Boris the Bear’s Circus Adventure Extravaganza of Suffer for Lonely, No” is the latest adventure you can read on helloiamabear.com! Please enjoy!

 

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.

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.