How Easy Is A Bush Supposed a Bear
by Jeff Baker
The big brown bear muttered to himself as he pushed the shopping cart down the aisle of the supermarket.
“Frozen food…no need for that…stick to the list. Oh, hey, blueberries. Gotta have me some blueberries.”
With one big paw he opened the glass door of the display case and reached in carefully with the other and set the small packet of frozen blueberries in the cart. Better than when he’d accidentally ripped open a package with his claws.
The bear glanced at his list. Not much more and the bottled water was tempting. He shrugged. The case would be too big.
He stood over the frozen meats.
It had become so much easier when he’d realized that “venison” meant “deer meat.”
He wheeled the cart down the aisle with the magazines and passed a young man in a sleeveless shirt, showing a lot of tattoos. The young man looked up, pointing at the blue paper mask covering the lower part of his face and pointed to the bear’s mask, nodded and gave a thumbs-up.
The bear nodded politely and moved down the aisle, amazed that with the little mask nobody seemed to notice that he was a bear.
He turned down the next aisle and stopped. There were rows and rows of shelved jars and containers of honey. Some glass, some plastic, some shaped like beehives, some shaped like cute little bear cubs. The brownish-gold liquid seemed to glitter and beckon in the store lights.
“Just turn away,” the bear muttered. “Go down the next aisle. Just. Turn. Away.”
With a roar, the bear lunged for the shelves.
A half-hour later, his fur smeared with honey and shreds of containers the bear walked out of the store. He had been asked to leave.
“Oh well, I can always shop online,” he muttered to himself as he ambled down the road out of town that led to the forest.
“And the first thing I order is a freezer.”
I plotted out this story in my Mom’s apartment in her retirement home while she dozed and watched TV., as I had done many times before. She passed away peacefully later that evening at the age of 91.
She and my late Dad were always very proud that I was a published writer.
This story is for them.