The New Arrival

Our “no more bears” policy was waived this past week. The birthday box arrived from Nova Scotia, stuffed with goodies courtesy of Nicole and her discerning Ru sense—tea and a collection of Henry Miller’s writings on writing—and blinking up at me when I lifted the first layer of tissue was this little sweetheart.

She might have been a bit overwhelmed. Imagine, sitting in a shop on the east coast of Canada, then going home with Nicole (a desirable last stop for any critter), then being snugged up for shipping—a few days which I hope she spent hibernating—and waking up 6000 miles from where she started!

I plucked her from the box straightaway and cuddled her while inspecting the tea (samples from the Tea Brewery—the website is already bookmarked) and reading the card, then Ter scooped her so I could pore over Nic’s literary offering. As I flipped pages, pondering how Nic could possibly know of my longstanding joke about living my last days like Henry Miller (basically drunk and dissolute in Paris), Ter suddenly blurted: “Uh oh.”

I glanced up. “What?”

She looked sheepish. “I just kissed her nose.”

Uh oh, indeed. Not that Honey Been was destined for further travels, but once Ter has kissed a bear’s nose, that bear’s fate is sealed. Big or small, fluffy or fuzzy, polar or panda, a smooched bear is immediately assimilated into the collective. We gave Honey B a few days to get settled, then introduced her to Caesar, with whom she now resides in my writing room. Caesar is our senior bear, adopted circa 1990, and has been a bit lonely since he and Ter switched rooms last fall (see here).

He’s a big sweetie and she’s a little sweetie, so I think they’ll get along fine.