… when you start having dreams about bears. I don’t normally remember my dreams, but this one has been pretty vivid all day. I was just outside my parents’ house, enjoying the springtime weather, when I saw a bear down the hill. My camera was in my bag, so as I fumbled to get it, I whistled at the bear. My intention was to get it to look at me so I could capture what would surely be an award-winning photograph.
Instead the bear starts charging for me. This bear, like most, is fast. I immediately sprinted for the front door, praying that it’s unlocked. If it isn’t, there’s no chance I’d survive. When I got there, it was open and I slammed the outer door shut just in time. The outer door is a screen door with some iron bits to it, and the bear easily shreded the screen with a single slash that just narrowly missed me. I forced the heavier inner door closed and locked it. Newly boastful about my increased safety, my parents and I watched the bear as it attacked the outer door.
Then things got a lot worse.
I am not familiar with bears. I’ve never seen one in person until this event, so I had no perspective to realize that this godless killing machine was merely a cub, playfully practicing for its murderous destiny. And now momma was outside the large picture window in the other room, scratching at the window. There was no doubt in my mind that this substantially larger and angrier bear would smash through the glass, tearing me and my family apart before raiding the cupboards for honey and picnic baskets.
That’s when I woke up.