The baby bear

Before we left Shorthorse last Sunday, Gene Carner showed us what he and Alan had found next to the road on their way to our place that morning. He began pulling something out of a blood-spattered garbage bag. The stiff, stout black legs came out first. It looked like some sort of plush toy.
It was only toy size, but he was real. A baby black bear, maybe eight months old and about the size of our little pit bull Lizzie. He'd been struck by a vehicle on Highway 200 just moments before Gene and Alan happened upon him. He'd obviously been killed on impact by a blow to his head; one side of his face was pretty messed up. But that was the only visible injury.

We all marveled at the quality of his thick, shiny coat. He'd ready for winter! His big slipper-like paws were incredible. His ears were soft and pliable. As I stroked him from head to foot, I realized what an incredible, bittersweet experience this was.

Gene debated what to do with him. The kill was already several hours old, and we had no refrigeration at the job site. Gene planned to keep him cool in the basement until quiting time, and then take him back to a local taxidermist for an assessment. He offered the baby bear to us; I would have loved a full body mount. But Don thought it was probably too late.

The opportunity to immortalize this little bear is now gone, except for the writing of this story. We didn't even think to take a picture of him!