Dexter discovered the bear cub one clear morning just as he was firing up the still. Startled at the rustling in the surrounding woods, he grabbed his shotgun and marched grimly toward it, fully prepared to run off any interlopers with as much force as necessary - it was, in his opinion, defense of whiskey and sacred ground, a matter not to be taken lightly.
The cub, Dex had no idea of how old he or she was and certainly no thought of danger, was snared at the edge of an abandoned well, hind feet caught in web of wire and splintered boards, front feet precariously snagged on a fallen tree limb. Dex could see he was losing ground as he struggled and at first he took careful aim, intending to shoot and walk away with a pelt that might bring a few precious dollars from the tourist trade - sentimentality and poverty do not walk hand in hand - but then the cub raised his head and gave him a pitiful look and the old bootlegger hesitated just long enough to lose the will to fire. Don't seem right to shoot a fella when he's already down, he grumbled outloud. He lowered the shot gun and cursed mightily then squatted down and begin to ponder on how to free the small creature and incur minimum risk to them both. The possibility that there might be an anxious or hungry mother bear in the vicinity crossed his mind no more than what he was to do with the cub if he managed to free him - Dex was what Nana called "a hand to mouth kind of guy", never much for long term planning. He began crawling toward the cub on his hands and knees, watching intently for any sign of hostility, but the little bear just continued to hang and scrabble at the edge of the well, looking frightened and tired, making small bear noises Dex thought might be crying. Pulling on his old work gloves as a last minute precaution, Dex propped a plank under the cub's hindquarters and levered him up - it took all the old man's energy and breath - but the cub got hold of solid ground and pulled himself up. Slowly and carefully, Dex approached him and gently disentangled him from the wire and wood, speaking all the while in what he hoped was a soothing tone ( the only thing he could think to say was a Bible verse he had learned as a child so he recited the 23rd Psalm over and over ) but keeping his knife within reach. He had pretty much decided he could take the cub if it came right down to it - he was older and less agile but the bear was injured, any fool could see that one hind leg was at an unnatural angle and likely fractured. Finally freed, the cub skittered away from the well and regarded Dex with an appraising look, the broken back leg a dead weight. Reckon Rowena could set that, the bootlegger told him mildly, Iffin we could get you to her. He considered the problem for several minutes then shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. In for a dime, in for a dollar, he said finally, and walked toward the cub, took a deep breath, and in one easy motion, scooped him off the ground from behind and carried him to the wagon. The little bear squirmed some but made no serious protest.
A bear? Rowena said unbelievingly, A bear with a broke leg? Lord have mercy, you old fool, what am I 'sposed to do with a bear with a broke leg?
Reckoned you could fix 'im, Ro, Dex told her with a hopeful grin and lifted the cub out of the wagon. Rowena, as soft hearted a woman as the island had ever known and well regarded for her powers of healing, sighed. Bring him into the barn, she told Dex, I'll do what I can. Don't 'magine he'll be all that much trouble what with being lame and all.
Rowena tended the cub all that summer, feeding, poulticing, caregiving. Dex visited almost every day and by fall, the bear was well recovered, considerably grown, and caught between being too tame to release, and too wild to keep confined. He needs a name, Dex suggested. He needs a home, Rowena protested. The argument went on for several weeks, might still be going on to this day but for the happy accident of a Canadian Wildlife Agent, a nephew of the Haynes sisters, who happened to visit that Christmas. Hearing about the bear - who had by then been christened "Whiskey" - he visited and offered to relocate the animal to a Cape Breton wildlife park. The move was accomplished the following spring and Whiskey lived out his years in his natural environment, safe, free, and still wild at heart, a perfectly ordinary black bear but for a mysterious and life long love of ginger ice cream and blackberry jam. The bootlegger and the animal healer brought both each time they visited.
It was, Dex and Rowena came to agree, a perfect ending to the bear story.
They never did manage to agree on the name.
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