My Soul For A Cuthbert Grant

*** continued from previous post ***

"Ya," Eric said, "ve save all our vacation and come over here for four or five weeks to hike in da mountains." He smiled. "Such beauty."

The table, with the possible exception of Jackie, were so grateful to Robert for ending a painful social situation that they literally bombarded the couple with questions concerning where they lived, what they did for a living, etc. Well, painful for them. For me? Shoot, this was good theater right here. Good theater indeed. I debated turning the conversation back to the subject of the bear, just for the lulz, but then decided that, in the man's world, this would be akin to kicking Robert in the dingles. Hard.

Protip: Never make an enemy of a lawyer, Canadian or not. It would be safer to toss rocks at a pack of pit-bulls on meth. Or Rush Limbaugh. Not on meth, he's a staunch, upstanding Republican for God's sake.

So, no meth. OxyContin yes. Meth no.

Turns out that other than their bizarre relationship and beliefs concerning all things fangy, and the fact that it was only a matter of time before they were eaten - horribly, horribly eaten - Eric and Leah were very nice people.

Leeza, who had ushered the staff back into the dining room with piping hot plates overflowing with delicacies unknown even to Emeril Lagasse, cleared her throat and said, "Just want to remind you folks that at 7:00 we'll be hosting a fascinating talk with our resident bear expert, Randy Dale. Randy works in cooperation with the Park Service to control problem bears. He'll have his Karelian Bear Dogs with him, so stop by the library after dinner and join us. It should be," she said casting a quick glance at Eric and Leah, "a very informative evening."

Eric and Leah looked at each other in unison, and gave a slight shrug of their shoulders and roll of eyes.

The conversation died out a bit as we tucked in, and was replaced by single-word declarations; "Yum." "Oh!" "Wow.", as we dove into this night's gustatory offerings.

We spent the next twenty minutes making small talk. I learned several things. One, you can't grow roses in Calgary. Well, at least the people at the table agreed it was possible, but no one had ever done it successfully, at least outside of the Calgary Rose Society, who, it was agreed around the table, had made a pact with the dark ones in trade for a nice, bushy Cuthbert Grant.

Two, Terrence the Doctor took his kayak to work every day in the late spring and summer, where, on his lunch break, he would have someone drive him a few miles up the small river that ran behind his practice so that he could ride the frothy white back down in time for afternoon appointments. Now how cool is that?

Three, the friends of our hosts were actually from the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. He was a bicyclist, riding back and forth to work each day regardless of the weather. He said that he had actually missed only 4 days of riding the previous winter.

Now usually the bicycle community, as I've explained, looks on the motorcycle community as their younger, dumber, drunk-ass brothers on the road. The motorcyclists regard the bicycle community as - - - well, obstacles. Something that you have to move over in the lane to keep from clipping and getting your bike all scratched. Anyway, this was one of the friendlier cyclists I'd encountered, and we actually chatted quite a bit about the road, and our experiences.

I was quite taken with his ability and determination to ride year-round. He was impressed with my ability to speak in polysyllabic constructs.

I think anyway. He may have been humoring me.


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