Tag Archives: thoughts

I saw two mice fighting today.

Leave a reply

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.

Leave a reply

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.

1 Reply

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.