My Incorrect Career Choice Becomes Evident - I Should Have Went Into Ranger Blackmail

*** continued from previous post ***

Dale shook his head, as if coming out of a dream.

"Yeah. Okay." he said not quite under his breath but almost. "Okay. Well I guess I should start out by telling you a little bit about Keesha and her breed."

As soon as Dale started talking you could see that this was a part of the talk with which he was very comfortable. Enthusiastic even. Now, I've been on enough stages, (once again, sometimes even invited!), and memorized enough lines to know when I'm hearing a monologue. And that's what this was - a monologue about his dog. Evidently Dale spoke in public more than I had assumed.

As Dale continued his patter, we learned that Keesha was about 7 years old and this would probably be her last year in service. Instead of Keesha being Dale's personal dog, as, once again I had assumed, it turns out that she was actually on loan from a breeding and training facility in Idaho. Dale, at the earliest sign of spring and way before the bears came out of hibernation, would travel down to the kennels in the States, spend two weeks training with his 'co-worker' for the season, and then return to the mountains.

He explained that Karelian Bear Dogs were a specific breed, originally from Finland - which would explain the thick, mid-length coat on the dog - truly a cold weather creature - and were known not only for their loyalty and hard work but their absolute fearlessness on the hunt.
We learned that the Karelian was a silent hunter, only barking when it had its prey cornered. They were absolutely wonderful with people, but not so much with other dogs unless they'd been raised with them. Even then, as a strong pack animal, they would fight for dominance and alpha status. They also completely understood their own worth, and it took a strong master to keep them in line.

I would insert some line about your mom here but I think she might be monitoring these letters, so we'll just let it be for the moment.

Dale explained that Keesha loved nothing more than working the Park. She would often be up and ready long before Dale had his first cup of coffee. Keesha's job was to jump out of the truck at the appropriate time and bark, chase, and if need be, nip at the bear - all the while avoiding being eaten - until the bear, through sheer frustration, vacated the area.

Dale then paused again. "So . . . yeah."

I knew exactly what he was doing. He was following the script in his head. He had just finished section 1, and was now moving to a different topic. I thought this a little odd that his segues were so rough, but who the hell am I to criticize?

Dale scratched his chin, chewing something over in his head.

"Folks, I have to tell you, Keesha and I visit a lot of schools and classrooms through the year, so I'm not really used to speaking to adults. I'm sorry, just bear with me."

To which a chorus of reassurance flowed from the room like molasses in a microwave.

This encouragement seemed to relax him a bit, and he walked to the front of the chair and sat down, putting his hands on his knees.

"Okay. Well, since we're all adults here, I guess I can toss the classroom lecture and tell you what really goes on." A sly smile crept across his face as he said this. "I have the best job in the world. I get to drive around all day in a truck, and when I see a bear where no bear should be - you know, hanging around garbage cans, or hanging around the lodge here," which elicited a hearty chuckle from our hosts in a not entirely positive way, "and when I find them I get to shoot them in the ass with a paintball gun."

I repeated that in my head like the coolest mantra I'd ever heard. ‘I get to shoot them in the ass with a paintball gun’.

Now there were several reactions to this statement. Some chuckles. Some shaking of heads. Some looks of incredulity from certain women in the group. I'm not pointing fingers, but old hemp-lady, as I had come to tag her, didn't look pleased at all.

The men in the group? Their thoughts were painted on their faces as plainly as makeup on a televangelist's wife. It may have been phrased differently for all of us, but boiled down to this single notion:

Who the hell do we have to kill to get a job like that?

I mean really - you add a six-pack of beer, some cheese and crackers, and a Willie Nelson CD and you have every man's dream. Shooting grizzlies in the ass with a paintball gun from the safety of a truck and all sanctioned by the government!

I mean really . . . what did he do? Find a Genie? Trade his sister? Flunk out of law school but not before he'd collected some embarrassing info on a Park Official?

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