Things are not going well with my girlfriend.

A few nights ago, you see, I was taking out the garbage. She accompanied me, though I can’t say why at this particular juncture. We rounded the corner of my cabin by the woods and saw an unmistakable silhouette in the moonlight. A bear. A large one. Brownish. Facing the other way.

We hushed our idle conversation and backed slowly to the porch. The massive beast heard our tender footsteps and followed, its great head lumbering curiously side to side. In gentle cadence we made it up the three porch steps, across the slats and into the sliding glass door.

I slid it closed and fumbled with the latch while the bear approached. I was so occupied with the latch, I failed to notice the oddity of the situation.

My girlfriend did not, stating, “Does that bear have a beak?”

Understandably, I froze. Bears don’t generally have beaks. That’s not the natural order of things, not here. Her next statement only made matters worse.

“I-I-I think he’s talking to us.”