The bear on the wall

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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.

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