Little Bear

He was officially name Little Tommy Tucker for the nursery rhyme about the boy who sang for his supper. Though not an orphan-boy, Tommy did sing. As Slaphammer mimicked the tool for which he was named, Tommy likewise could be heard exercising his vocal chords while working hard to drain his mama's teat.

That he could do just that, and as voraciously as he did, was a miracle in itself. The veterinarian admonished us after his very difficult birth that he would likely be very weak; we should not expect him to live past a few days, and that only if he accepts nourishment by artificial means.



Once home from the animal hospital, we looked over the implements for Tommy's feeding, read the instructions and commenced our new role as nurse maid. It wasn't working. He wouldn't swallow the tube, instead spitting it out as though he knew this was not right; he was supposed to be buried, face and all, into his mama's underside, and there was supposed to be too much teat for one little mouth.

He struggled for access to his birthright, climbing over the mountain and foothills that was his mother and brothers; he'd not be prevented from gorging himself in the sweet smelling nourishment. Tommy would settle in, eyes closed, tiny paws massaging Bluegrasses teat, sucking loudly until a faint throaty approval rose, silencing the mechanics of the event. He relished mealtime and sang all about it.

Satisfied, Tommy would let the teat slip from his mouth, and drift off to sleep. He never assumed a dog's normal sleeping position, curled up with nose-to-tail. Instead, he reclined against his mama, full belly protruding, back legs forming a circle in front of him, like a bear cub protecting a huckleberry bush while reaching to strip it of fruit.

Like the bear cub, Tommy was fearless, going places and doing things with no regard for danger. After all, life was meant to be good for the son-of-the-king-of-the-forest.

He was truly a Little Bear.