Polar Bear

A polar bear exhibit upsets a visitor.

I remember seeing a polar bear at the San Diego zoo.  The solitary animal was enclosed in a false habitat made up of mostly concrete, painted white to resemble snow and ice.  I guess they couldn’t have real snow, because the temperature was above 70 degrees most of the year.  The bear’s coat of fur seemed to have a green tinge, and I wondered about this until I overheard someone.  They said that algae was growing in the animal’s fur due to the warm and humid climate.  I never thought  I would ever see a green polar bear.  It paced back and forth, back and forth, on a short concrete stage, before a pool of water in a concrete hole.  I noticed that as it lumbered one way and then the other that its motion and its steps were exactly the same, to the point that it’s footfalls had worn the paint on the concrete floor away, so that there was a line of staggered footprints across the stage that the animal never deviated from.  I watched him do this for a long time, amazed at its accuracy, at its perfect cadence.  It seemed this animal had an instinct to walk vast distances, and that it made due with what it had, pacing endlessly across the stage, going nowhere, the view never changing, in an endless rhythm all through the day, through even years.  I noticed that my hands on the viewing rail were clenched,  and I helplessly made to move to the next exhibit,  but I never made it there. I went home instead.