Our Ursine Friend
Yes, she smelled. When she moved, more than dust wafted, and though she seemed (from a distance) to lope with the grace of a scarf dangled from the neck of a woman who had never heard of Isadora Duncan, she was definitely a bear in close quarters, meaning Ming china had no chance, even stoneware a goner–
The good side: our rotten lettuce had no grubs; no need for ant traps.
But here was the true boon–and forgive me if that word is overblown, overblow honestly the crux of this matter–in her onyx-eyed snuffle, in that padding dance of claw and matte, she brought out our fanciful–
We would all lie down on the lawn or squeeze together in the bed–she never minding the overhang–and the dark warm funk of her fur somehow gave rise to fairies in the brain.
it was as if her quills, dancing lightly along our sides–for her paws paced when she was sedentary–were pens for all they wrote in us;
and I would find myself telling tales of the imagination–storyboards made up of whole (if hirsute) cloth. No more the veiled memories; forget the fathers, mothers, bosses barely disguised.
No, she allowed me to see in metaphor, even beyond metaphor,
and the humdrum of my heretofore gave birth to heroes on the run from rutabagas, villains fomenting fate, backdrops built from all manner of “olde” and new, and as I wove that bright-worded warp, she would grin with her sharp white teeth–
A bit of a draft story for Real Toads Open Platform, hosted by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor. (Also for Gillena’s prompt on megafauna, though too long for that prompt!) Pic is one of mine; all rights reserved.