Sarah Pledge Dickson: ‘Larry’

Larry on the bus headed to the block. (Photo by Sarah Pledge Dickson, 2017)

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of a dog barking. I rolled over in my sleeping bag looking into the pitch black. Somewhere a few feet in front of my face was a tent. 

“Larry?” I heard a muffled voice ask. “Is there a bear Larry?” 

Larry – the dog – only barked louder. 

From my vantage point on a partially deflated sleeping pad and no more than a stone’s throw from where Larry was barking, I knew rationally that somewhere within scenting distance was one of the black bears that had been hanging around camp for a few days. 

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Only the night before someone had woken up to a bear pawing around for forgotten toothpaste inside their tent. 

“Is there a bear Larry?” Jesse cooed. 

The zip on the outer shield of Jesse’s tent flew up, screeching as the teeth failed to hold it closed. Larry kept barking. One thing about the forest in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere is you can hear absolutely everything. 

I couldn’t see what was happening, but the sounds were enough that I could picture Larry’s curly haired labradoodle body jumping around Jesse’s feet, just waiting for the command to be given. 

The kitchen had loaned him some pots and pans to beat together to help Larry scare away the bears. I heard them clang together as Jesse put on his boots. 

There was a moment of complete silence in which I imagined Jesse and Larry staring silently at one another. 

Jesse’s voice pierced the silence in a quiet command. 

“Go get the bear, Larry.” 

Larry’s paws broke branches and scattered leaves as he tore through the woods. Jesse barged after and the sticks at head height snapped away from him. He banged the pots together loudly. 

He whooped into the night, “Go get the bear Larry!”