I’m afraid of bears. I spent the Summers of my youth in Alaska, sowing the seeds of ursiphobia. The airport in Anchorage has a large collection of stuffed animals, not gift shop stuffies. They are grotesque taxidermical nightmares. Every animal is rendered in full blood-thirsty attack mode, lunging badgers, snarling wolves, elk impending impalement. But the bear is the worst. Standing twelve feet tall with a roaring world-record head, and massive paws that could smash a bison’s skull (according to the plaque). I realize now that this factoid is a cold calculation of force and bone density. As a child, I assumed someone witnessed a frenzied buffalocide on the prairie.

I was relatively immune to my “uncle’s” horror stories while camping. The classic hook murderer didn’t faze me much. But being relentlessly mauled by a bear filled me with dread (cliché!). The woods were very real. Sometimes we would go for walks through patches of bear-grass, six feet high and too dense to see more than a few feet. Occasionally we would burst out onto a trail or small clearing, “made by bears”, I was told. I was constantly reminded of bear safety, usually as we walked home at dusk carrying bags of snagged salmon. Clasp the back of your neck and roll into a ball. Great. He’ll get tired of chewing on me and move on to livelier game.

My daughter Viola (age 3) says bears are my favorite. I’m not sure where she got that. We’ve been playing a lot of Bear lately. Mostly just prowling around the living room, sometimes I get a pillow cave. But things have taken a turn. Lately when I’m a bear, she’s a unicorn, and we stage epic battles. My sides are pretty badly bruised from her head butts. I find it strange that she has a natural instinct for a mythical creature’s attack. She drives the horn between my ribs, puncturing the sensitive organs within.

DEAD