The Trials and Tribulations of Bear

Yo! Dudes! It’s Bear here. I’m not actually a bruin; I belong to the canine pack. I’m called Bear because I look like a black bear. Mind you, that was more in my puppy days when my shape was—well, let’s just say—a little more rotund. I’ve now grown into a svelte, sleek specimen. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not petite. I top the scales at one-hundred-eleven pounds – a nice, round number. And don’t even begin to think I’m pudgy—most of that weight is fur—thick, soft, long, shiny and silky. You could say that I’m tall, dark and handsome—every bitch’s dream. My long black hair would be the envy of Elvis, were he still alive. Coincidentally, I live in Memphis, his hometown, and some have noted the resemblance between us. But nobody, I mean nobody, has ever said to me “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” My trainer, a true canine connoisseur, calls me a “magnificent creature.” I have a distinctive splash of white fur on my chest, on my otherwise all jet-black body. My longish ears fold forward, giving me an alert, inquisitive look. You could get lost in my big brown eyes. My tail—well, don’t get me started on that long, fully feathered and absolutely glorious appendage.

You’re probably curious about my forebears, the bears who came before me. I’m told my dad was a big black handsome German Shepherd, although I don’t have a German accent. My mom was a gorgeous blonde Golden Retriever. From what I’ve gathered, their union wasn’t sanctioned, and I was relinquished at a very early age to a family who, unfortunately, also had a small child. I’m not at all vicious, but as my online profile later stated, I am “high energy.” Well, duh. Aren’t most two-month old pups? Perhaps it was a combination of my enthusiasm and size, but the human child was afraid of me. So, away I was sent to a foster home.

I’m now in my prime, nine and a half years old. There’s not a gray hair on me, or a gray hare, for that matter—thank goodness. It seems like a good time to share my story, my trials and tribulations, my highs and lows.

My foster home was on a cattle ranch in the wilds of northern Arkansas. I had no less than twelve foster siblings. We had the run of the place. Rompin’ and stompin’ in the cow ponds and the cow poo with the cows and the other pups? I mean, does it get any better? If you ever find yourself in that situation, be forewarned that bovines are big beasts, but swift, they ain’t! I could nip at the hind legs of one and be across the field before it even knew what bit it! And Delories, the cattle rancher, was cool. She’d let us take turns coming inside the house to be petted. I thought things were going swimmingly—I do love to swim. But unbeknownst to me, Delories had put that ad online asking someone to adopt me. I can’t fathom what made her do it. Wasn’t I always the first to jump in her lap and lick her and let her scratch my ears?

What happened next wasn’t too bad. (I swear to you, this is all true.) A woman liked my ad and called Delories. She asked a few questions about me, and before I knew it, I was on a road trip to Memphis. Delories and I soon arrived at the Memphis woman’s home. We’ll call her K, as she doesn’t want her identity known. K came out to greet us, along with a very hairy brown four-legger called Sadie, a bit smaller than me—well, almost everyone is. Sadie was nonchalant. She gave me a sardonic look as if to say, “What the hell are you doing here?” and proceeded to ignore me. But K seemed friendly, if a little slow. I was able to close the distance between us in a couple of bounds before she took more than two steps.

They took Sadie and me into the big backyard to “play.” We sniffed each other. I did a perimeter check of the whole yard. Unfortunately, the fence seemed secure. There was no cattle pond but it was a good sized yard. Sadie continued to ignore me. Snooty little bitch. But there were two male dogs next door that seemed pretty communicative. They barked an introduction.

After a while, we all went in the house and sat for a spell. I leapt up in Delories’ lap as was my habit. When she got up to go, it appeared she wasn’t going to take me back home with her. What was up? She started crying. K said, “You don’t have to leave him here (I presume she meant me) if you don’t want to.” “No, no, no,” said Delories through her tears as she rushed out the door. “My other pups will be so glad he’s gone!” And then she hot-footed it back to Arkansas. What? My siblings weren’t fond of me? First I’d heard of this. I thought we’d gotten along great.

Well, even if Sadie was a snob, she looked like she’d be game for a tussle or maybe mouth wrestling. And K seemed to like me; she seemed pretty gullible. So far, the treats she’d offered were tasty. There were some dog beds on the floor for Sadie. It looked like K and I would have to share the queen size bed, but if I stretched out full-length, she’d probably learn to stay on her side of the bed.

After a few weeks, K got the notion that Sadie was too old to play with me; she was twelve, after all. So, K took me to try out at the vet’s doggie day care, with other pups my size. I had a great time. But when K came to pick me up, the guy at the desk said, “He can’t come back.” K was taken aback. “Why not?” she asked. “He was rude to the other pups,” he said. “What did he say to them?” asked K. “He sat on them if they wouldn’t play with him,” he reported. Oops! That was my modus operandi with my former siblings, which Delories later told K about. I didn’t see the problem: actions (not playing) result in consequences (being sat on). They were just slow learners.

For the most part, K and I get along. But you know how it is when you live with someone; you’re bound to disagree on a few things. Take decorating, for instance. There’s a rocking chair in the living room that really suits me. I can curl up in it, with my head on the armrest, my front paws sticking out under the armrest, and my tail dangling down gracefully, just grazing the floor. What a handsome picture! But the rockers were a bit too long and not quite pointy enough. So, I set to work on them, making careful adjustments, gnawing them down to a better shape, much like a beaver. Geez, did K have a fit! She said it was an antique chair of her mother’s. Well, do I look like an antique aficionado? To me, a rocker is just a rocker, meant to be enjoyed and re-shaped to your liking. Some folks can make a mountain out of a mole hill, which, come to think about it, would be worth seeing.

Family relations can be tricky, like when K’s brother Jim came to visit. For some reason, they locked me outside while they carried boxes back and forth, back and forth. It drove me crazy. I barked and barked to remind them that they had accidentally locked me out. Finally, they joined me outside. I was prepared. I knew that the best way to get a new person’s attention was to pounce on them as high up as you can and lick their face. My trainer calls this “body slamming.” I sized Jim up and saw that he was much taller than K. I knew I’d have to really get revved up to reach his shoulders.. So, I did some speedy laps around the yard, gaining momentum each time, then I launched myself towards Jim and got in a few facial licks. But Jim was not amused. “Get him away from me!” he yelled, trying to block me with his arms while running for cover. “I didn’t come here to be mauled and have to get stitches!” (He didn’t actually have a mark on him or require stitches.) He’s a doctor and maybe overly excitable. This was several years ago and Jim still won’t come in our house.

Shortly after this K began giving me what she called tranquilizers, to “better manage me” she said. I thought I was the manager, but whatever. They had little taste, but she enclosed them in some lovely flat cheese, so it was a win-win for us both.

Oh, yeah, there was also an unfortunate incident at the vet’s. The vet and two techs whisked me back into a torture chamber and tried to investigate my nether regions. Some vets have an unhealthy obsession with nether regions. I screamed and fought them. They finally brought me back out and told K in code, “We couldn’t accomplish the procedure.” When she asked why, the girl tech said, “We felt that when he kept resisting even with three of us laying on top of him, it was getting too stressful.” Well, duh. You think? The tech said, “Next time give him some tranquilizers before he comes in.” “I gave him eight,” replied K. The moral of this incident? All three of them were puny people, so, if you ask me, if you’re going to try and do this sort of thing, you need bigger vets.

It wasn’t too long before Sadie gave up the ghost. I’d ended up getting used to her. I have to admit, I miss that little bitch.

One day shortly after that, K met this big white retriever/lab sort of dog at a friend’s house. When I say big, I mean he was almost exactly my size, which is rare. He seemed really sweet. His name was Gabe. He needed a home and K thought I was lonely. We went on a play “date” (ha, no sex was involved) and we got along great. So, we took him in. Really, I enjoyed his company. We’d run around and rough-house in the back yard until we were worn out, then come in and pile onto the couch next to each other, butts touching. In the mornings, instead of just me, Gabe and I teamed up and both trounced on K to get her to get up. I taught Gabe how to sit on her. I have to say, it was pretty effective.

Then, one day, of the blue, Gabe got pissed at me. He growled in a really unfriendly way, grabbed me around the throat and wouldn’t let go. I’d done nothing to aggravate him—I hadn’t even tried to sit on him. I literally screamed in panic. Neighbor Billy heard me and ran out and hosed us both down and yelled for K, but still, Gabe wouldn’t let go. K came rushing out and wedged a metal lawn chair between us, and finally Gabe relented. I skedaddled in through the dog door like a scalded dog, only I wasn’t scalded, I was hurting, and terrified. K yelled at Gabe in a very mean tone and slammed the dog door shut.

She grabbed me and we high-tailed it to the vet’s. Soaking wet and shaking, I looked like a drowned rat, not my best look. K frantically told them what happened. I have to say, they were pretty nice. They quickly took me into a room and felt me all over. The vet said that since I was soaking wet and black, he couldn’t tell if I was bleeding, but he thought I was okay. He suggested K leave me there for a bath while she went home and dealt with Gabe. That was fine with me, because I didn’t even mind taking a bath if it meant not facing that traitor Gabe.

Weirdly, when K got home, Gabe acted as meek as could be. What a hypocrite! K took him back to the woman who’d given him to us. Then K came and got me. The vet said he couldn’t find any wounds. Well, I did have a wound on my throat that healed up later, but in the vet’s defense, with my collar on and thick fur, he couldn’t see it. The moral of this story is: never let a big white dog into your home, no matter how sweet he seems. They are scammers.

Then along came something called “the pandemic.” Humans talked about it seriously, like it was a bad thing. I didn’t see it that way. Instead of cavorting around town with her friends, or going hither and yon to work, K stayed at home mostly, which I liked. And this was funny: suddenly, all the humans were competing for vaccinations. Well, duh. I’d been getting a couple of shots a year since forever and it really was no big deal. Had they just realized that maybe they could get rabies and distemper too? K called her friends and relatives and asked when and where they were getting their shots and what kind they were getting. Humans sure know how to make a meal out of a perfectly common occurrence. All these years I’d gone to the vet and K would say, “It’s not going to be a big deal, just a little prick.” While I didn’t like being called “a little prick,” I had to agree that it wasn’t all that bad. But go figure. Humans are strange.

Occasionally, some fun things happened. K started sewing these little masks—it was too early for Halloween, and they didn’t cover her whole face, so they weren’t very effective. But apparently, it really caught on, because she would drive all over town, picking up fabric from some houses and masks from others, and dropping the masks off all at this one house. The best part is, I got to go with her! Oh, man! There is nothing I like better than riding in the car!

K has what she calls an SUV, which has lots of space in the back. She’d let me get in the back and roll down the window. I’d sit with my head out the window, my ears flopping in the breeze, and my long pink tongue lolling out as far as it was go. (I could win a “Dog with the Longest Tongue” contest.) It was bliss. Always helpful, always willing to do my part, I’d bark excitedly at each house, letting the owners know we were there. I made a lot of new friends this way. Folks came running out to pet me and I’d lick them until they were as wet as fishes.

Then, K found these new places called “dog parks.” I discovered the name is a misnomer. They weren’t places where dogs parked. Just the opposite. The people were parked. These were large fenced in places where the humans parked in one place and talked on their phones. Meanwhile, they let their canines off their leashes so that WE could run around and mingle! So many butts to sniff! Saint Bernards—was it possible for dogs to be bigger than me? German Shepherds, Golden Retrievers, Labs, Australian Shepherds, poodles (!), Beagles, Dachshunds, even common currs, and little white fluff dogs. I especially loved running with the big dogs. Remind me to write a book called “The Joy of Running.”

Another really great thing we’ve done started with a car ride. Sometimes, when it gets really excruciatingly hot here—it’s called the Dog Days of Summer—all of a sudden, the power goes out, which means all the electric fans and the air conditioning stop working. The house is unbearable, but so is the outside. My tongue and K’s are both hanging out. So, we get in the car and crank up the car’s air-conditioner—it literally is so cool the way that works—and pretty soon, we’re cooled down. But then, and this is icing on the cake, but it wasn’t cake. We pulled up to this little building, and K says some magic words to a disembodied voice. Spooky right? Maybe we should have worn masks? But then we pull up to another little window. An actual person looks at me and says, “Would you like a pup cup?” K says yes, please. And get this: the person hands her a little cup with something white and fluffy in it (NOT a fluffy white dog) and K holds it out for me to lick. OMG! This is nectar of the gods! Sweet, milky, cold and it just evaporates on your tongue. Where has this been all my life? I swooned. Then it got even better. They gave K a bag that smelled greasy and heavenly. She reached in and pulled out handfuls of crispy, hot, salty potatoes—and tossed them back to me! She munched on a sandwich and periodically threw me a piece of meat or bread. This tossing and eating went on for a while, all while we were riding in the air-conditioned comfort of the SUV. I don’t think I can stand it if life gets any better.

Except, well, I could probably handle getting more of those pup cups!