Bull Moose

 

Bull Moose

I slammed on the brakes and skidded to within inches of the beast.  There he stood, big, black and beautiful, calmly sizing me up through the windshield.  His apathetic stare froze me in place.  I gripped the wheel tightly and wet my pants, just a little, which was understandable under the circumstances. 

He strolled around to my driver side window and sniffed my rearview mirror to see if it might be edible.  Then he stared at me through the glass, just a foot away, as if he sensed my fear but chose to let me live.   Suddenly he snorted a blast that fogged up my side window, which gave me occasion to wet my pants a bit more and worry momentarily about my leather seats. 

I knew he was bull because as he sauntered around to the rear of my car I caught a glimpse of the massive equipment hung on his undercarriage.  Magnificent.  Towering above my car, he came nearer, stopping to lick my rooftop antenna, hoping it might be a snack. 

At glacial speed he completed circling my car, then stalked away into the forest, his six-foot rack thrashing the branches. 

That traumatic moment changed my life forever, in three specific ways:

1.      1.  I no longer eat meat.

2.     2.   I donate to a wildlife fund.

3.     3.   I drive in diapers.