Most evenings
as dusk approaches
we look to see if the evening primrose flowers have started to open
and we look north, east, south, and west
for bears.
Uncle Jack taught us about evening primroses.
New flowers open each evening,
quickly.
The buds split and fold back
and four papery yellow petals unfurl,
exposing stamens
and the cross-shaped stigma;
a closer look reveals strings of pollen
strung across the flower like webs.
The whole process takes about a minute and a half.
Calming.
Fascinating.
We sometimes miss the bears
as they aren't on as predictable a schedule
as the primroses.
Bears may come in the mornings
or afternoons
or during the night
and all we see are their tracks
or broken branches on the Juneberries
or the birdfeeder on the ground.
The cracked corn
that Den scatters on the driveway for the doves
sometimes disappears overnight,
licked clean.
This week, though,
we have spotted a yearling cub
visiting at dusk.
One evening Den found him in the garage
next to the spilled sunflower seed container
and named him Little Bear
like the bear in the Minarik/Sendak children's books.
The next night I saw him
as he moseyed from the driveway
to the back woods
where I had thrown old eggs
and some ham fat.
The cub was not easily frightened
but stood up,
curious.
He reminded me of the pictures from my youth
of starving Biafran children
with sad smiles
and skinny limbs
and distended bellies.
His limbs and belly
were almost hairless,
his ears white
with mange.
Den wanted to fatten him up;
I wanted to stroke him,
to teach him to come when I call
like a pet cat--
not that our cats come when we call--
but instead we called the game warden.
Officer Stewart and his deputy came yesterday morning
with a large metal tube on a trailer,
a humane trap.
It was baited with dogfood
and fat
and beaver lure
and tasty sunflower seeds.
In the late afternoon,
Den added a opened can of tuna
but no bear came at dusk.
I settled for the primrose show.
This morning at 7:15
while lying in bed
we heard a clunk.
"Got him!"
We dashed outside in the rain,
peered through the holes
and saw his white ear tips.
"It's Little Bear," Den said.
"Let him alone. He's scared."
But I couldn't.
I peeked in one hole,
then another,
talked to him,
told him I was sorry he was so sick.
His nose appeared,
curious.
and I blew on it.
He made some noises.
Den couldn't let him alone, either.
He thought that Little Bear's mom
may have been the mountain's mangy bear
that circled but wouldn't enter last year's trap,
that she hadn't survived hibernation,
and that the cub had been on his own for months.
"Poor Little Bear.
He must be hungry."
Den dropped half a pound of good bacon into one of the holes.
Officer Stewart came this afternoon
and took him away.
He will determine
whether Little Bear is a candidate for rehabilitation--
medicinal treatment--
or not.
Not long ago
I made my evening trip to the windows
and looked north, east, south, and west,
but saw no bears.
I said a prayer for Little Bear
and looked at the primroses.
They stood tall in the raspberry patch,
shedding raindrops
like tears.
---------------------------------------------
Follow-up to this story, two days later:
When we called to report another bear,
Middle Bear,
about 250 pounds
with slight mange
and tags in both ears,
Officer Stewart told us that Little Bear
had received two mange treatments
and was released in the gamelands.
When he was given a dead beaver,
instead of eating it,
he snuggled down with it.
We now have another cub in the trap
instead of the Middle Bear
we have Tiny Bear.
He, too, is mangy
and loves bacon.
Hopefully,
by the end of the summer,
we will have caught and treated them all.
