Jack of Harts

So there was this one day I took a rhinestoned city slicker out on a forest tour. This, ahem, lady thought she knew everything about the wilderness. She’d read books, don’t yah know. She graduated from the Ivy League in Old New York City. She knew things no country bumpkin could hope to. I was sick and tired of her ten minutes into the tour. She also liked to talk smack about the animals we saw along the way, never realizing that at least half of them were smarter than she was. Being generous in the lady’s favor here. I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. It all came to a head when she bent over, not a bad sight I’ll grant you, to tease a baby bear. Long story short, she made it cry, and then the mama bear came and made HER cry. Now mama was an artist. I will give her that. She tore every rhinestone off the lady’s clothes and shredded them to within a whisker’s width of violating the public indecency laws, all without putting a single scratch on her skin. I absolutely deny for the record that I enjoyed watching that. On the contrary, I spent nearly five minutes talking that mama bear down, completely with quoting the employment contract she signed that forbade little things like scaring the crap out of our guests. I also deny for the record that I gave mama my blessing when she roared that last time after the lady called her a dumb beast. That would have been completely unprofessional and unbecoming of my position.