So every summer we go away for a few days with our pals Greg, Jill, Jeanne and Brant. We tend to rent a house in the middle of nowhere, which means:
A. Seclusion.
B. A lake.
C. Lots of grilling.
D. Weird decor.
This year, our basement happens to be graced by a (good) pool table and (bad) dead bear. My kids named the bear Emile, which suggests an adorability that the beast lacks. First, he’s dead. Second, he’s a bear. Third, he has patches of missing hair. Fourth, one of his teeth is taped in. Sixth, he’s dead.
I, for one, fail to grasp the appeal of a dead animal decoration. Am I supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about Emile? Am I supposed to be impressed by the hunter’s skill? Is it supposed to transform a house into a home, like that Mary Chapin Carpenter song? I simply don’t feel it.
Regardless, I’m here with Emile.
Sorta wigged out.
