I go to the bear store to get some work done on my bear. It’s down the street a bit from the horse store, but unfortunately bears have an excellent sense of smell.
“Come on,” my bear says. “Horses! I just want to look, please?”
I’m terrible at arguing with my bear, so off we go. Beside the horse store is a corral; my bear climbs the fence and starts talking to some of the horses. Other horses look out at me just standing there waiting for my bear to come back.
“He’s never been your bear,” one of the horses says, a dappled palomino. “You haven’t even given him a name.”
“I know,” I tell the horse.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m taking him to the bear store.”
“And get some ‘work’ done?”
He and I both know what ‘work’ implies: the room in the back, where the bear therapist meets her clients, with tissues and chunks of salmon to ameliorate our mutual tears as the bear learns what’s going to happen next.
“That’s the plan,” I say quietly.
The horse stares at me for a moment, then nickers. “We both know what’s really going to happen. You take one step in that bear store, and you won’t talk to Dr. Becky, you’re just going to walk out of there ten minutes later with an extra bear.”
“I know,” I say dejectedly.
“And then you’ll have two bears you won’t bother to bring yourself to name.”
“Alright, already!” I tell the horse, who clearly was never trained in how to back off.
“Why don’t you visit the horse store instead?” the horse says. “Trade in the bear, quit teaching English, ride away on a beautiful horse, maybe join the circus?”
When the horse says circus I back up like that fence is on fire. I tell my bear, “C’mon, we’re leaving.”
“I like it here,” my bear says. “The horses tell me next week they’re all going to join the circus, and they said I could come with them.”
“Fine, join the circus with the stupid horses,” I say. “I’m going home.”
I keep my word. I don’t go back to the horse store, and I sure as hell don’t sneak over to the bear store; I don’t wait for my bear to catch up, I go home, and I stay there. My wife and I work on various projects. We keep warm. Weeks pass, the semester comes to an end, I turn in my grades, lather, rinse, repeat.
And then comes the knock on our door. It’s the bear, of course, with a worn out look in his eyes.
“The circus,” he says.
“What about the circus?” I ask. I wait for him to say the words.
“All they want are tricks!”
“I know,” I say.
“Took you long enough to figure that out,” my wife yells from the living room.
We wait some more, us inside, bear outside.
“Are you ready to have a name?” I ask.
“My name is Stupid,” the bear says.
“That’s a circus name,” I tell him, from personal experience. “A work name.”
“Pick a better one,” my wife says.
And so, bashfully, Thomas, our bear, walks through our door and curls up in his usual spot by the fireplace.
My name is Hugh, my wife’s name is Mary, in case you were wondering.
