The bear was small and black and looked like a large dog. It was even panting, Gasping, for air. One, or perhaps both, of its lungs was probably crushed. It was crawling over asphalt towards the forest, home, bloody and broken. It had crossed paths with a car. It would not survive. When the officer arrived on the scene, he informed us he would have to “dispatch” of the bear. Dispatch. That word clung to my brain, offending my soul. Dispatch. Like it was a food order. A phone call. A message. A flight plan. I looked at the suffering dog like bear, it’s useless legs, bloody paws, nose and mouth, crawling futilely towards home. It did not cry, but I heard it wheezing, a rattle in its lungs. And then, with a well-placed bullet, it was, dispatched. And the wheezing stopped. Having been dispatched, the young bear looked small and weak. It did not look peaceful. all rights reserved. copyright Justin W. price Jan. 9, 2012 View ...
