"I was five years old when I had my first encounter with a black bear. In the spring of 1990, my father, a wildlife biologist, brought home an orphaned three-month-old cub in a cardboard box. The cub's mother, having burrowed beneath the roots of an old tree, had been killed in the den by a logging excavator, but the cub, weighing barely more than a bag of apples, survived. Forestry workers caught the young bear and dropped it off at the Fish and Wildlife office in Peace River, Alberta, where my dad worked, and he called my mom with the news."
"The tenderness with which he took off his blue sports jacket and gently wrapped it around the calf's eyes, so that it wouldn't be frightened by the crowd of people that gathered on the riverbank to watch, has always stayed with me. My dad's work as a biologist felt heroic, even godly, to my five-year-old mind. He seemed to be able to communicate with animals in their wordless languages. He wasn't afraid to get close, handling them with the same affection he showed when tucking us in at night."
A five-year-old child is introduced to an orphaned three-month-old black bear brought home by his wildlife-biologist father. The cub's mother was killed by a logging excavator while denning, but the cub survived and was delivered to a Fish and Wildlife office in Peace River, Alberta. The child's brother and neighborhood react with excitement, reflecting a family known for rescuing animals such as coyote pups, a barred owl, and a stranded moose calf. The father soothes the moose calf by wrapping his jacket around its eyes, demonstrating tenderness and calm. The child's perception of his father's work is heroic and intimate, and the cub's blue eyes and paradoxical fur texture leave a lasting impression.
Read at The Walrus
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