Yeah, that's right. I found a rock and went all grizzly with it at the Minnesota Zoo.
You probably saw it on the news. A bunch of people were gawking through the window of my studio apartment, so I chucked a rock at the plexiglass, just to let 'em think about 15 inches of paw coming at them.
The zoo tried to spin it, saying I was just “playing.” But I wasn’t. It was a PR stunt. I needed to get your attention.
Before I was carted off to this land of pasty people with calf tattoos, like I was some kind of Brangelina adoption, my teenage years were spent in the spruce forests of Russia's Shantar Islands.
Life was sweet. The rivers were so loaded with salmon I could walk across them. My days were filled with berry cobbler, scratching my rump on trees, and occasionally chasing gulag escapees and freelance photographers from National Geographic.
I even had me a honey. She’d stop by every June. We were friends with benefits. I was king.
But ever since I was captured and taken to this dump, my days are unrecognizable.
Every morning I'm awakened to my keeper, who sings along to Soul Asylum. The new stuff. Not their older material, which is so much better.
They feed me farm-raised salmon. It’s an issue. Once you've tasted straight outta the whitewater freshness, the farmed crap tastes like Long John Silver's.
Sometimes I take a dip in my crappy pool, which is a bear's version of a kiddie pool from Dollar General.
And I sleep. A lot.
This isn’t living. It’s like waiting to become a rug in someone's second home in Grand Marais.
So I need a favor: Get me outta here.
This is Minnesota. Aren’t you guys supposed to be all save-the-animals like?
In the meantime, gawk away. I'm here on borrowed time.
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