In a development that has sent shivers of existential dread down the collective spine of the British commentariat, news has emerged from Japan of a bear of such staggering intellectual prowess that it has allegedly outwitted four hunters and is now roaming the countryside with the impudent swagger of a tenure-track philosophy professor. This is not your average, grumpy, honey-obsessed picnic-basket burglar. This is a bear that, by all accounts, has been attending too many TED Talks on the semantics of ursine liberation.
The beast, which has been dubbed ‘Beary McBearyface’ by my cat (who is also a better journalist than most), is reported to have injured four locals before absconding into the woods, leaving a trail of half-eaten sushi and second-hand haikus. But here’s the kicker: Japanese wildlife officials have described the bear as “extremely intelligent,” which in any normal language means “this thing is probably composing a manifesto about the exploitation of forest ecosystems under late capitalism.”
Naturally, this has prompted the British animal experts to weigh in. Because of course it has. Nothing says ‘national crisis’ like a think piece from a man in a tweed jacket who has spent the last decade studying the mating habits of badgers in surrey. According to Dr. Alistair Pimpleton-Wills of the Institute for Questionable Grants, “This bear has clearly developed a level of sentience that demands we reconsider our relationship with the natural world. Or, more likely, it just wants a decent curry.”
The irony is almost too delicious to bear (pun intended, and I shall not apologise). While the Japanese authorities are presumably deploying drones and psychic ninjas to corner the brainy bruin, British pundits are already writing columns titled “What This Bear’s Rebellion Teaches Us About the Northern Powerhouse” and arguing that the creature should be given a seat in the House of Lords for services to avoiding capture.
Let’s be honest. The only thing ‘extremely intelligent’ about this situation is the bear’s decision to avoid the UK entirely. Because if it had the misfortune to wander into the British countryside, it would be immediately set upon by a pack of gin-addled ramblers, photographed for the Daily Mail, and forced to participate in a reality TV show called ‘Bear’s Got Talent’. Instead, it’s holed up in some Japanese forest, reading Heidegger and plotting its next move.
But what does this say about us? That we fetishise the ‘intelligent’ animal because it mirrors our own smug self-regard? That we are so desperate for a narrative that we cling to any creature that can outsmart a human, because deep down we know the average office worker is no match for a squirrel with a hangover? The bear is a mirror, dear readers, and it’s showing us our own ridiculousness.
Meanwhile, back in the real world, four Japanese hunters are nursing their wounds and contemplating a career change. The bear is still at large, presumably working on a screenplay about the futility of existence. And the British experts? They’ve moved on to more pressing matters, such as whether the bear’s intelligence could be harnessed to solve the Brexit impasse. (Spoiler: it couldn’t. The bear has better things to do.)
So let us raise a glass of industrial-strength gin to the ‘extremely intelligent’ bear. May it outsmart every trap, avoid every tabloid, and teach us all a lesson in knowing when to walk away. And if it ever does land in the UK, I have a column waiting and a very strong desire to interview it. Over a pint, obviously.
