Grizzly Bill

Circum­stances were such that had I had to move back in with my par­ents. I was thirty-one. My mother informed me that the posi­tion of Son had been filled. “We pro­moted the fam­ily pet to Offspring,” she said, “renamed him Bill.” 

“Bill” is a six-hundred-pound griz­zly bear. 

“The Pet posi­tion is open,” she said. “We miss the long walks after din­ner. It might be good for you.” 

Options lim­ited, I had to accept. 

When I arrived I found Grizzly Bill liv­ing in the guest suite, smok­ing cig­a­rettes out back, watch­ing television. 

“You’ll have the ken­nel,” my mother said. 

It’s a large ken­nel, granted, but it’s in the back­yard. It’s full of old blan­kets and half-chewed stuffed animals. 

From the ken­nel I can hear Grizzly Bill play­ing my gui­tar, break­ing strings. He’s chum­ming around with the neighbour’s daugh­ter too. He can’t believe his luck, I bet. The envy of his bud­dies in the Strathcona Valley! 

I wake up at six in the morn­ing. I have to go to the bath­room. And I can’t go on my own. “Them’s the rules,” my father says. 

He takes me up to the boule­vard in the rain, watches me dig around. “Go on, do your thing. I got the bag. You signed up for this.” 

I do my thing. Then go chase after a pass­ing dog, sniff­ing its rear. We go back inside. I eat Kibbles ’n Bits out of a bowl on the kitchen floor. 

Meanwhile, Grizzly Bill sleeps in, gets up when he wants to, and reads Hemingway. 

Most of the time I just sit on the old white love seat wait­ing to be felt sorry for: eyes droop­ing, heavy sighs now and then. 

When some­one walks by I yell and scream, put my hands up on the win­dow, drool, and look men­ac­ing. What have I become, I wonder? 

I try to attack my ear with my foot. 

“Time for a walk, Dirk,” they say. They leash me up; we go round the block, check for the mail. 

Dirk is my name now. 

My mother says to my father, “Grizzly Bill got a story pub­lished. Did you hear!?” 

At din­ner I sit in my cor­ner by the table. I watch as my par­ents and Grizzly Bill eat salmon steaks and talk about “pop cul­ture.” My father fills Grizzly Bill’s glass with Shiraz. I edge my way closer to the table. I see the piece of weath­ered pas­trami I’ll get later. 

Grizzly Bill does the dishes, picks a salmon bone out of his teeth with his claws. My mother warms but­ter tarts in the oven. My father taps both feet at the same time to buddha-bar Vol. 2, lick­ing stray Shiraz off his lips. 

My arm raised slightly, like a paw, my mouth open and tongue out, I wait for the moment my par­ents look at me and say, “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”