Around October last year I was walking along a dirt road with my dog Rocket deep into the Quebec wilds. I spend a lot of time there with her and my other sweetheart. We’ve been making a second home out of a cabin in the woods.
So yeah, the walk. At the time Rocket was about 8 months old. I’d like to say I had her pretty figured out by then. Heck I could-a written a manual on her. Then, like life does, she showed me something.
As we walked the dirt road a few hundred metres from our cabin, she paused and sat at the side of the road. It was a perfect vantage point to gaze down into a ravine that dropped into the lake we are situated on. I remember smelling something pungent. As a guy that claims to know his dog, I figured she farted. I then realized there was something extraordinary to captivate this Chocolate Lab puppy full of piss-an-vinegar. She sat there and looked down – silent and still. I walked to her to see what was so memorizing.
That’s when I saw a black bear.
My heart bounced irregularly. When I saw an exposed ribcage, I realized this majestic beast was dead. I’m sure Rocket knew this too. This said, her and I sat there and looked. I wondered how the beast had died. A hunter? A truck? Disease?
As the fall moved to winter, we passed the carcass regularly. Each of us piqued to look downwards into the ravine. Sometimes large ravens, magical creatures in their own right, pecked and ripped at the flesh and fur.
I had always meant to go have a look this spring to see what was left. I fantasized about having a bear skull cleaned and bleached sitting on our bookshelf. I had to compromise. Rocket and I found the skull and had our moment with it. I walked up the road and threw it deep into the woods away from our cabin.
I have been running with a bear bell since. Next year, Rocket will become my running partner. She has a loud bark. She’s also a tough thing much like the other female we share the cabin life with.
Thanks for reading always,
Kevin
Not the actual bear.
