Bear Skin Rug

I am thinking about getting a bear skin rug. I am convinced that it will add greatly to my happiness.

I have been coming up with reasons why I need a bear skin rug, and in all of them, the voice of the bear in my head is distinctly akin to the Honey Badger. So that's a good enough reason to start with. Everyone needs an inner Honey Badger. Mine just happens to take the form of a seven foot tall Grizzly.

Oh yes, this is a Grizzly bear skin rug. Did I mention that? The brown, slightly mottled fur is going to play nicely with the blues in my couch, adding a rustic touch to my otherwise colonial style. It is important to show variety in your household so as to provide both comfort and intrigue in a home setting. Duh.

The teeth are also an important attribute. They represent my internal ambition, my ability to intimidate, and my vicious protection of things I hold dear. Also, my clean bill of health at my last dentist appointment.

Beady little eyeballs are a must. Eyes are the window to the soul, after all. How else would we be able to understand the great contradiction of this bear? The inner teddy, yearning for love and affection, mixed with the wild, untethered mammal of yore. It is a deeply complex creature, this future inhabitant of my residence.

Plus, it is going to make an excellent impression on any guests who visit my humble abode. It's got a certain something to it, doesn't it? Something that says, "Let's have a picnic!" and "One time I shot a man in Reno!"

Now, I'm not much of a betting woman, but I think this is a gamble which will pay off.

 

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Mostly, I want a bear skin rug because my grandfather promised me one.

When he was in the hospital for the last time, he told me that, when he got his strength back, he would go back to Alaska (where he grew up) and shoot me a bear. "You need a rug," he'd tell me, "and I'm going to get it for you."

My grandpa and I didn't always get along. In fact, it wasn't until the last four years of his life-- the four years that I spent at his Alma mater and visited him on my own-- that we got along at all. We never fought, but we didn't mingle. We didn't chat. We definitely didn't make each other promises.

He loved each of us kids in his own way. It wasn't the best way or the easiest way, but it was still love. In the end, I got a promise from him. A promise that something sacred to him would become mine. A promise that his goal was to become better so he could make my life better. A promise that he wanted to provide me with a sense of home.

It has been exactly one year since my grandpa passed away.

I am thinking about getting a bear skin rug.