A polar bear on the way to Insor

For Chiara (who I had to make a little younger for the story) and for Mia (who stays as she is)


 

He's been walking for quite a while when strange sounds reach his ears—quiet, unfamiliar tones whispering among the trees. The fresh, clear scent of a nearby stream fills his nose. His heart beats faster. Only a few steps separate him from the place he's been observing from a distance for some time.

Eagerly, he dips his snout into the cold water, lapping hastily as he curiously scans the shore. With his paw, he pushes aside a few unruly bushes and then lets himself drift down the slope—step by step, deeper and deeper.
And then, beyond the road, the first strange cave appears. It lies a little off the beaten track, isolated from the others, but its bright red glow radiates far into the surrounding area. With growing curiosity and a quiet sense of awe, he sets his paws further and further until he finally stands before the cave's massive entrance door.

He holds his breath. A moment of silence. He squeezes his eyes shut and suddenly, unexpectedly, feels a strangely familiar warmth. You know, not warmth that comes from the sun or a fire. It's a different warmth, more delicate, deeper, like the faint hint of a memory he can't quite grasp. Slowly, he lifts his nose and sniffs at the massive, dark wooden door.

Unusual sounds reach his ears: the faint crackle of wood, secretly etched with the flame of lightning, voices lapping like distant waves on a silent shore, and the clinking of glass reminiscent of breaking ice in a frozen river. For a moment, he closes his eyes and lets the sounds flow through him. He hesitates, standing motionless in front of the door. Perhaps this place holds dangers—sharp, unknown things his instincts warn him about. But it isn't fear that holds him back. It's the uncertainty, the nagging suspicion that a place that holds so much promise isn't meant for someone like him.

For several minutes, the bear remains motionless, completely still and attentive. Finally, he makes a wise decision that we can all only applaud: He wants to risk a peek through one of those shiny ice combs next to the door.
He cautiously takes a few steps to the side, his large paws gently landing on the frozen ground. He carefully pushes his wildly hairy head over the edge of the transparent ice floe, turns his snout to the side, and peers excitedly into the cave.

Inside, around a table laden with a variety of steaming food, sits a family of proud creatures, happily stuffing their bellies. The astonished bear sees a father grinning broadly at the end of the table, a mother with a reprimanding finger, two little girls teasingly squabbling, and a dog lying bored at their feet. From the corner of his eye, the bear watches them laughing happily, joking, and eating. The pungent aroma of food wafts all the way outside. With wide eyes, he takes in the light illuminating the walls and furniture. Near the wall stands a flickering box that makes strange noises and which he cannot explain at all.

He briefly looks at the many pictures on the wall in which the family is smiling, waving, and posing. Then he realizes that he is looking at a real family—how happy they are, how they belong together, and how they love each other. Just as he had always wanted. The bear gently presses his paw against the glass.

As a bear, you have to block out the moon and the stars, the sun and the wind blowing off the wide waters, to admire images like these before you. It takes strong nerves and a fair amount of courage not to simply turn around and trudge back to your cozy cave empty-handed, despite all these strange things and occurrences in this dwelling.

These beings, their voices, their movements—everything seems interwoven, warm and alive. Even the things he can't comprehend at all—the strangely shaped lights, the silent pictures on the walls—speak to him of a world so far removed from his own, yet containing something familiar within it: family, security. Things he once had but believed long lost.

A deep sigh escapes the bear's chest, a sound like a suppressed sob. So he turns back to the door. He doesn't know the strict rules of humans and doesn't know that a knock or a gentle push on the doorbell would be enough to let him in. So he does what he thinks a bear should do in such a situation. He takes a deep breath, as if to blow an annoying fly out of his fur, tenses his powerful muscles, and strikes with his mighty paws. Once. Twice. Three times. Like a boisterous child tearing apart a paper boat.
The door crashes open, and First of Four steps trembling into the room. As he crosses the threshold, he no longer understands the world. Not in his wildest dreams would he have expected something so beautiful.
First of Four is truly delighted, and, as Mama taught him, he roars an unmistakable "Rooooaaaarrr!" into the room. So loudly that the house—and probably many a heart—trembles.
And since, as we all know, two is more effective than one, he roars again: "Rooooaaaarrr!"
Well, perhaps a little too loud for a greeting—but the bear has nothing but a polite gesture in mind.
In the face of this unmistakable and unfortunately completely misunderstood gesture, the world seems to hold its breath for a long moment. Everything freezes. Not a sound can be heard. Only distorted sounds emerge from this strange box in the corner, as if it doesn't quite know how to respond to the bear's greeting.
First of Four had been watching the creatures closely from a distance. He quickly realized how clumsy and fragile these stilt creatures are in the wild. He acknowledged this with a broad, satisfied smile. Stilt creatures avoid ice. They live in ice-free meadows, bare beaches, and among jagged rocks. They are timid and prefer to seek out dwellings that they have painstakingly constructed. He doesn't understand why these creatures—like himself—don't simply find a cave to survive in. That would be much easier and safer. After all his knowledge, he really wouldn't have thought them capable of such nonsense.
First of Four has never tasted meat. He is a level-headed bear who likes to keep his eyes and nostrils open, but is just as happy to lower his gaze in the face of violence. First of four has no thirst for blood. He also feels no desire for meat. In fact, First of Four simply finds meat disgusting. In his cozy, damp cave, he's planted a small cucumber garden, which is thriving. He loves these cucumbers dearly. He fertilizes them with his fresh piles. He never needs to water them due to the persistent humidity. There's little light in the cave, but this particular type of cucumber thrives in the darkness.
This morning, after getting up, he sat for hours on the plateau in front of his cave, as he had done so many times before. He nibbled on one of the cucumbers, enjoying the fresh, cold wind. The stilt creatures rarely approach him. But he can constantly observe them from a distance, hunting seals or birds with their loud, thundering sticks. But so far, they've never targeted him. It's true, he thought, no one, absolutely no one, would advise anyone to approach a stilt creature. They're cunning and extremely dangerous, and they'll stop at nothing. But since bears, especially polar bears, are stubborn, unteachable, and, incidentally, quite brave, nothing and no one could stop First of Four from going down to all those strange stilt-walking creatures.
And so he stands there, lost, but his smile, marked by a wide gap in his teeth, beams amidst the chaos he himself has created. The bear, aware of the people's stares, opens his mouth to say something, but before he can utter a single word, the small, delicate creatures jump up as if at an invisible signal and rush out of the room, helter-skelter. Their hands flail merrily in the air as they flee down the corridor toward the back exit.
The dog already seems to be in his later years. His movements are sluggish, and it becomes clear to the bear that the poor dog only has three legs. With a limping gait that reveals both his tenacity and his vulnerability, he follows the people as fast as he can. Which isn't very fast, as the bear has to admit with pity. So the dog limps down the corridor,whines and tucks his tail between his legs for safety. Then the dog is out too, and the door slams shut: "Bang!"
The bear can barely close his mouth in astonishment. "Uh oh!" As his mother always used to say: "Close your mouth, it smells like trouble."
The chairs and a dresser have tipped over. Dishes, glasses, and pictures lie scattered broken on the floor. He looks at the beautiful, shiny floor, which he has scratched with his sharp claws. Then he turns his gaze to the bulky front door, hanging in tatters in its frame, and sighs regretfully: "Oh – oh dear, my, oh – oh dear, my."
The room, just a moment ago full of voices, full of warmth, now lies empty before the bear. Only the quiet dripping of something broken breaks the silence. The talking Box that was just a moment ago standing in the corner lies on the floor and no longer makes a sound.
The bear looks in disbelief at his paws, which had caused so much destruction so easily, even though they were only trying to be careful.
Sadly, the heavy bear settles down in a corner, his shoulders slumped. The warmth he had felt before is gone, replaced by a biting cold that bears nothing to do with the usual Arctic cold.
First of Four is still a young bear—just three and a half years old. The bear thinks of the past—the time when he still had brothers who constantly tried to defeat him as the older one in their fights, a mother who often but lovingly reprimanded him when he was about to do something wrong, and a home that was cozy and felt so safe. Back then, oh back then... the bear sighs deeply. Back then, before the loneliness began.
Oh, if only everything were like it used to be. Back then... yes, back then.
So, while the bear sinks into his sadness, he doesn't notice the back door opening a crack and, accompanied by heroic barking, the three-legged dog limping back into the room. The dog has recovered remarkably well and hops confidently down the hall on his three legs. He's hardly impressed by the sight of the supposed beast.
The dog, the hair on his neck rising slightly, looks around. With a confident shake, he surveys the devastated room, his expression filled with astonishment.
An impertinence of unprecedented proportions, he thinks.
And just to show who's in charge again, he exclaims indignantly: "Good heavens, what are you doing?"
Secretly, he's a little pleased that this time this mess can't be pinned on him.
The bear briefly raises its head and lets out a quiet and extremely timid "Rooaarr!" The dog, completely unfazed by the ridiculous growl, replies, "Oh, shut up!" At which the bear, completely perplexed, snorts through its nose and says indignantly, "So—"

The bear certainly didn't expect the dog to react so confidently and so rudely. His gaze wanders uncertainly around the room as he tries to organize his thoughts. "There's no need to be mean right away. What's wrong with that dog?" he whispers to calm himself down.

Of course, the dog isn't afraid. Or well, if he is, he's not trying to show it. And—it's worth mentioning how hurt the three-legged dog feels now. Because, without any backup, his humans have thrown him into the monster's clutches. I'm not completely crazy, he thinks, not looking at the bear but staring somewhere at an invisible spot on the wall. He shakes his head in disbelief. Well, what a lovely family! If push came to shove, they'd sell what was left of me to a canning factory. Enjoy your meal. Really – what a lovely family they are! Loudly and emphatically, directly in the direction of the bear, he says: "I hope you're not planning on doing anything else stupid here. Looking at this, it's going to be a really bad day anyway." As an expression of his indignation, the dog shakes his head vigorously and mutters under his breath, more to himself than to the bear: "And I always thought you bears were intelligent animals. When I see you and this mess here, I'm having serious doubts." Annoyed and suspicious, the dog limps around the dining table twice on his three legs. Again and again, he lifts his nose, sniffs attentively, and checks the air. "Everything's still here," he grumbles contentedly. So, it looks like the bear didn't stumble in here for the food.
Honestly, the dog wouldn't mind if this bear just quietly disappeared back to where it came from. If there's one thing the dog absolutely can't stand, it's problems.

And here in the room - it practically smells of trouble. Yes, really big problems, he thinks. That stupid guy in the corner - and I, the smallest of all in this crazy family, have to pay the price. To show that callous, merciless traitor family out there how seriously he takes his role as protector of the house - despite everything, he growls and bares his teeth. The noise is so unpleasant that even our jaws are literally pulling when we listen. So loud, so painful that the two-leggers out there in the cold can't possibly miss it. If they found me in here - with my stomach ripped open and my head half torn off. And then I'd stick my tongue out at them. So yuck! That's what you get for leaving me here alone with this beast! Well, see how you get on without me. And how much you'll miss me!
Meanwhile, First of Four has retreated even deeper into his quiet corner. He presses himself tightly against the wall. In a soft, almost tearful voice, he whispers: "How could I have guessed that these funny-looking stilt creatures wouldn't tolerate bears in their home? Every bear dreams of receiving a friendly visit from another bear every now and then. They laugh, exchange stories, shove something tasty in their mouths, poop here and there—and otherwise just relax. What could possibly be wrong with that?"
He lowers his head.
"Who could have guessed that this kind of distinguished visit isn't even welcome among these proud creatures?"
Both are silent for a moment, and then, more to himself than to anyone else, the dog whispers: "No one ever knows why these finger people do what they do. I stopped thinking about it a long time ago. It is simply what it is. They are simply what they are. Unfathomable. Cruel, yes. But—one mustn't hide this—sometimes they're quite nice. Yes, quite nice. And sometimes even... funny. These two-legged creatures, who always smell trouble, aren't all bad. Not all."
"Oh, I just wasn't paying attention and didn't think it through properly," says the bear quietly.
"It certainly looks like it..." grumbles the dog.
"Really not," sobs the bear.
"Now, now—" says the dog comfortingly.
First of Four sniffs, wipes his ears with his paw in embarrassment, and stammers: "I didn't mean any harm to anyone..."
"Well, at least it didn't look like it when you came in here..."
"Oh dear!" the bear interrupts hastily and completely despondently.
The dog remains relentless: "Well, just look around. This isn't fun, it's deadly serious! What are you even doing in here? If only you wanted to snoop around a little... but this? You can't just barge into a human house, scare the hell out of everyone, and smash half the house in the process!" The dog senses how deeply his words have affected the bear and quickly adds: "Well... somehow, someday, everyone here will get over it..."
"I really didn't mean to," sobs the bear. "And... I just wanted to chat a little."
"Chat?" the dog asks, already a little confused. "Or maybe a little looting or—worse still—murdering?"
"Oh, please!" the bear cries indignantly, vehemently rejecting the insinuation.

The dog snorts. "Well, no offense. You're obviously still a young bear. Not so familiar with the dangers and pitfalls of life. But I promise you one thing: Such a careless intrusion into a finger-human home could quickly cost you your fur. I guarantee you, if a finger-human gets you in the sights of his rifle, he'll blatantly knock you over and lay you on the floor in front of his bed – dead!"
The bear shudders. "Terrible!" he murmurs, shaking violently. "Can't these proud creatures be persuaded somehow?"
"Persuaded? Of what, please?"
"Well... maybe to talk to me?" the bear suggests hopefully.
The dog opens his eyes wide. "Say, are you crazy? What do you think these finger people have their fingers for? Mainly to shoot something. So why on earth would they talk to you? They pet us, yes. They give us silly commands, want us to fetch sticks or run after a ball. They're as happy as kings – these people. The most trivial entertainment – ​​they're into it!"
Following a sudden inspiration, the dog blinks at the bear. "Tell me, can you dance?"
The bear frowns. "Hmm... I've never tried it."
"So you're not a dancing bear?" asks the dog, shaking his head slightly.
The bear shakes his head regretfully and silently.
"Too bad for you – it would be extraordinarily helpful in this whole thing."
The bear scratches his ear thoughtfully. "I... I could try...?"
"You can't expect anyone with a halfway clear head to talk to a bear," growls the dog. "No one is that suicidal. Tell me—what's your name anyway?"
"First of Four," answers the bear, beginning to smile a little despite everything. His mother always explained to him that exchanging names was the first step to better communication.
"First of Four?" The dog grimaces. "Does that mean there are at least three more of your kind roaming around here somewhere?"
The bear shakes his head sadly. "Oh no... I'm all alone. No one accompanied me."
"So you ran away? Kiddies do that sometimes."
"I didn't run away," contradicts the bear quietly. "No one accompanied me either... no one's here anymore."
The dog frowns. "Your father must still be out there somewhere? And your siblings?"
The bear lowers his gaze. "No... no one."
"Your mother?" the dog asks cautiously.
"They're down there," the bear says tonelessly.
The dog pricks up his ears. "Down there? What does that mean? What do you mean 'down there'? Down where?"
"I don't know," sighs the bear. "My mom told me all my siblings were already there—and she would follow soon. This world, she said, wouldn't be the same anymore. 'It's the ice,' she kept complaining. 'The ice is melting.' And then... she just left. And left me behind."
The dog scratches behind his ear thoughtfully with his hind paw. "Hmm... it looks like your decision to come here wasn't so rash after all."
"Do you think... these strutting creatures could help me?"
The dog snorts and grimaces. "Oh no. The prideful creatures—as you call them—are completely unsuited for such large tasks. They may have nimble fingers, but they mostly use them to pick their noses. But fine... I'll see what I can do for you. Unless..."

The bear looks up, startled. "—what?"
"Unless you're just looking for a ruse to eat us all."
"Oh, my goodness, I would never do that!" the bear cries indignantly.
Although the dog is a naturally extremely suspicious animal, he can't detect any deceit in the bear's eyes. So he finally says, "All right... I believe you."
The bear nods eagerly. "I would never eat one of those beautiful, strutting creatures." The bear chuckles uncomfortably. "You should know—I never go hungry. I'm an independent, self-sufficient creature. I always carry my provisions with me."
The dog opens his eyes wide, bares his muzzle, and shows his—well, well-groomed teeth. "You're not serious!" he gasps.
"Yes, yes, absolutely!" says the bear proudly, the words fluttering from his mouth like colorful butterflies. And then, with a broad grin: "Look – here – my cucumber!" The bear pushes his heavy paw under his armpit and pulls a cucumber from his thick fur. It resembles the cucumbers we know, except its color has turned a dark, unappealing gray.
This just keeps getting better, the dog thinks to himself, almost clumsily falling forward onto his snout. One must not forget that the dog has been missing its right front leg for a long time – as we know, not entirely unimportant for a dog's stable footing.
The bear, oblivious to all this, now smacks his plump lips with relish and says, completely unconcerned: "Would you like to try them? Carefully tended, these cucumbers from my garden are a true delicacy."
The dog, who can blame him, pretends he didn't hear the question. "On a cucumber?" he asks, somewhat stiffly. "No, thank you, it's not necessary. To be honest... I have something more tempting in mind. Or rather, deep in my nose."
The bear, now in a truly exhilarated mood, has no appreciation for subtle scents and is unaware of the dog's wild desires. Even the drool that has been dripping from the dog's mouth in delicate threads for a while now escapes him completely.
"Well," the dog then says more conciliatorily, "I'd like to taste it, it's not like that. But up there, above us, the scent of deliciously roasted meat floats through the air—it floats around like soap bubbles, the sweet scent, only instead of bursting, they tickle your soul. Oh, one could almost give one's heart for it. You're taller than me, so—look up there at the table. Describe to me in colorful pictures what you can discover up there among all that human junk."
The bear blinks in incomprehension. "I'm not sure what you mean?"
"Well, up there!" the dog insists. "On the table! Nestled among all that junk. The finger people don't just use their fingers for hunting; no, they use them to conjure up true delicacies from their prey. I can sniff it out, but I'd rather hear it firsthand—what edible things do you find up there?"
In fact, the dog's sense of smell isn't the best anymore, and in his excitement, he could easily be mistaken. All this effort would hardly be worth it for a simple sandwich. So he urges the bear on: "Well? I'll wait!"
But the bear remains calm. "I don't even need to see it," he says, relaxed.
The bear closes his eyes, lifts his nose, and sniffs the air with a sweeping gesture.
"I can smell it," he announces solemnly.
"Well, then, spit it out, you stupid bear," says the dog, stamping impatiently on the spot. The prospect of the feast up there makes his mouth water.
The bear, as if he had just performed a magic trick, flicks a few crumbs from his fur. "I don't even need to see it," he says proudly. "I already smelled it outside, on the way here."
The dog rolls his eyes. He controls himself. Pathetic, he thinks—this bragging.

The bear continues undeterred, his voice slightly nasal: "It's something like a Mix-Max, a mashed-up meatball with all sorts of fragrant things I don't recognize. There are no cucumbers, though."
He licks his lips and looks at the dog expectantly, as if he should now receive praise.
"What a surprise," the dog mocks dryly.
He doesn't think to give the bear even a shred of admiration for his "special ability."
"In better times," he says with mock pride, "I would have sniffed out every single ingredient from up there, nineteen kilometers against the wind."
"Of course," the bear nods reverently.

The dog sniffs again, then wrinkles his nose. "Unfortunately, it barely reaches here these days. And to be honest... your cucumber—or is that your armpit sweat?—hangs in here like a thick cloud of fog."
He grimaces and gives the bear a pointed look.
The bear, whose pupils look as if he has clear frosted glass in front of his eyes, shrinks deeper and deeper into himself. So he has armpit odor?
"I... do I smell... of armpit sweat?" he asks meekly.
"Well, don't take it so seriously," says the dog, quickly trying to smooth things over. Nothing would be further from his mind than to insult the bear. Tease him a little, perhaps, but he really doesn't want to hurt him. "Well, no offense, perhaps I was a little too direct. As you've probably noticed, I'm not a dog who submits easily. I have my pride and dignity—and I expect the same from others."
The dog stands up to his—well—full height, chest puffed out, nose in the air.
"As you've probably noticed, I'm not a dog who submits easily. I have pride, dignity, and a pedigree beyond doubt! I am a true white-haired German Pomeranian—from the finest family and in direct lineage to the ancient nobility. Von und Zu, my friend, Von und Zu!"
The dog looks as if he's just read a royal charter.
The bear just blinks. "Von und Zu?" he repeats uncertainly, the corners of his mouth gently turning down. He hasn't the slightest idea what the dog is talking about.
And then, undoubtedly filled with his own importance, the dog stretches his white-and-gray, shaggy back—a posture that can be quite painful. He proudly raises his snout toward the sky and barks loudly, sharply, and clearly:
"May I introduce myself? Wilhelm—Wilhelm von Wangenschmatz, German nobility—of course! As anyone can easily see, I have long, thick fur—and underneath, a firm down that reliably protects me from the cold. In my younger years—which, admittedly, was quite a while ago—I was known for my agility, cheerfulness, and sociability. I remained suspicious of strangers, which makes me an excellent watchdog."
His gaze softens, almost wistfully. "I'm not telling you any secrets when I say I'm sad—even if I don't always show it. Back when I was a champion, the other dogs were... well... weak, slow, ugly—and lacking in duty. But that was a long time ago. That was in another world."
His voice takes on a dreamy quality. "The paths were soft, birds floated contentedly in the warm evening light, and the sun was stronger than here—much stronger. Hardly anyone returned to their dens before late at night. They enjoyed the gentle warmth and the intoxicating scent of all the blossoms that the wind carried across the land."
The dog sighs softly.
"I should have been the happiest dog in Salzburg. And yet – sometimes there's barely time to blink, and it's all over. Like with my partner, der „flitzende Johann“, a shaggy setter with floppy ears that almost swept the floor. Not nearly as fast as he thought, and with a fondness for children that didn't always help his role as watchdog. But, as the klutz always said: 'You have to have a lot of paws if you want to keep up with those smelly, snorting whrooduts.'"
Wilhelm lowers his head. "Der flitzende Johann was my best friend. Certainly not noble like me, nor particularly educated—but we complemented each other magnificently. Until the day we thought we could take on one of the ugliest Whrooduts we'd ever encountered. We simply wanted to be alive, to feel alive. Courage, mixed with arrogance, became our downfall."

The dog swallows hard. "We ran alongside the Whroodut, whooping, panting, our fur flapping in the cool wind. And then der flitzende Johann made a grave mistake. In his boundless exuberance, he snapped his teeth at one of those stinking rollerpits—you know, those black things that smell so strange and leave that dark, sticky mess all over the streets when they roar—which they do very often."
Wilhelm's voice falters. "I screamed because I saw the disaster coming. I barked to warn him, to alert the Whroodut to us. But it was already too late. Poor Johann was simply run over. Flattened, you see? Just like that—by that damned rollerpit. Simply run over."
The compassionate bear sniffs, and his eyes fill with tears. "Poor, flitzender Johann," he says, visibly shaken.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here in this inhospitable wilderness, huh?"
The bear nods eagerly.
Wilhelm pins his ears back, his voice becoming quieter. "Human decisions, my dear. Trials and tribulations. But that's all you need to know." He snorts, straightens up a little, and continues: "And now, before you try to figure out why I have to stride through life on only three legs—I'll spare you the question. Of course, I was smarter than Johann—I didn't hunt Whrooduts anymore. But you know, here as well as there in my old homeland, we had to cross all these roads every day. It was simply part of everyday life. And in my homeland back then—you can hardly imagine—all those noisy, purring Whrooduts stopped as soon as one of us aristocrats was about to attempt the crossing. It was custom. Duty! Nobility was sacred to humans."
The dog snorts contemptuously and points its snout upward. "And here? Here, nobody cares if a Wilhelm von Wangenschmatz walks across the street. They just keep speeding. And that's what happened. Right over there, one blew me off the road like a withered leaf... Well, I'm getting along quite well these days. More than that!" Wilhelm stands up proudly. "And if you like—von und zu—you can call me Wilhelm. But—and I tell you this emphatically—under no circumstances Willi! I won't tolerate that. It's enough for the mindless two-legged creatures to be guilty of this derailment."
"Willi is quite a nice name," the bear remarks empathetically, hardly able to imagine what it must be like to lose a friend in such a terrible way and then, to make matters worse, to have to go through life on three legs.
Wilhelm bares his teeth slightly, but his growl sounds more like a sigh. "I warned you." Then, somewhat more conciliatory: "It's okay. You don't mean any harm. But understand me—I'm not a stray dog. I'm a European noble dog. You must never forget that."
There's a silence.
Then, very quietly, the bear says: "You have a sad life, don't you?"
Wilhelm blinks, looks away briefly, as if the question has hurt him more than he'd like to admit. "Sad?" He snorts softly. "Well, not really. No. Rather...unsuitable for someone like me. In any case, dogs don't lead nearly as free a life as a bear does. Whether here or there, whether 'from and to,' dogs are now merely humans' beloved companions—devoid of self-respect and assertiveness. Sometimes I wonder why we've given up on ourselves so much. Even the aristocracy has somehow, at some point, forgotten itself. We allow them to clip our tails and ears, castrate us, deform our noses, and place our powerful bodies on thin legs. We allow ourselves to be locked in baskets and cages, led by leashes and collars, distracted with balls and sticks. We allow them to train us, praise us, punish us, feed us, and pet us. We allow them to take away everything that defines us, everything that makes us dogs. They want us to work for them, to guard and protect them, to be their best friends. Their stuffed animals demand that we love them unconditionally – no matter how terribly they treat us. We usually do too – it's our nature. If we defend ourselves against their abuse, perhaps with a light scratch, they react in anger at our perceived betrayal by knocking their teeth out of our mouths. You bears haven't completely given up on each other yet, and that's commendable. I could tell you terrible things... but you're still too young for that."
"That's horrible!" the bear exclaims, frightened. "How can you stand it?"

"We endure it because we have to," the animal replies with a deep sigh.
The bear nods, his eyes shining with new understanding and determination. "Can't you find the strength of a bear within yourselves?"
"That's the attitude," says the dog with a compassionate smile that seems sincere despite the circumstances. "We have no choice. We're bound to the Finger People, just as you are to the whims of nature. By the way, it's about time we showed those out there that we didn't fall asleep during a cozy coffee and honey cake chat."
The bear, who, given his age, isn't yet really receptive to such difficult topics and whose thoughts are understandably as mercurial as a delicate gazelle on its morning run, giggles and says, "I almost like honey cake better than my cucumber."
"That's what you look like. You honey cake bear." The dog also grins, finding it not so bad to have a bear in the apartment anymore. He thinks: One could easily get used to this fool.
The bear looks at him with canine innocence and asks, "Well, what are we supposed to do?"
The dog sighs and says, "We? Well, basically I have nothing to fear. Either a reward or a kick in the ass. It'll probably be one of the two. It just depends... but one thing is certain – they'll shoot you down either way. You've offended their honor..."
"Their honor? Well, I haven't done anything to them! Well, not really... just broke a few things, and not on purpose either..."
"They don't care. If they're hungry, they'll kill you. If you threaten them or roam around their territory, they'll knock you down. And if none of the above applies – they call it sport, and you're done for anyway. Humans are happy as long as they can eliminate something."
"But do they eliminate dogs?" asks the bear.
"I'm not aware of that," replies the dog. "On my honor and conscience—it's hard to find with these two-legged creatures. They're hard to trust. If you are a bear, they'd treat you like a stray vagrant or a cannibal. Just wait, soon we'll hear a crash, and the back door will open... Bears are simply not lapdogs—that's well known around here. I'd like to say otherwise, but they'll show something like kindness to a kitten, but certainly not to a mighty bear."
The bear hasn't been feeling well for some time. "I'm just a small bear, not fully grown, and hardly dangerous."
"They don't care," says the dog.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
"I'm thinking about that," says the dog, his expression businesslike. "We don't have many options, though, I'm afraid. And we're just wasting time here. So my suggestion: For now, let them know you're still in the house and still pretty grumpy."
The bear grumbles softly, but with deep dissatisfaction: "I'm not feeling well... Can't I just go home?"
"Oh, are we getting to the point of sensitivities already?" the dog replies mockingly. "You should have thought about that before. Go over there and look out the window. We should know what they're up to. First you come crashing in here like a whirlwind, messing everything up, and now, when things are getting serious, you want to leave? But unfortunately, it's not that simple. Besides, have you forgotten that you're a wild, terrifying bear?"
The bear sighs heavily, heaves himself to his feet, and trots lazily to the window. With a deep groan, he crouches down, hesitantly opens his mouth and makes a piteous noise: “Brum…brum?”

The dog rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Oh, you dear little dog—you're not a kindergarten bear! Stand up, look out the window, and look dangerous! They should have respect!" With this, the dog pulls himself up onto the table with elegant effort, makes himself comfortable, and pounces on the food without qualms.
The bear scratches his butt thoughtfully. "But what if I'm not in the mood right now?"
The dog smacks his lips and speaks with his mouth full: "Which of us is more skilled at dramatic entrances? So do what I tell you!"
The bear blinks in surprise at the bossy tone, then sighs resignedly. "Fine... then I'll just look."
He slowly stands up until his shaggy head with its sad, round eyes protrudes over the edge of the window. Outside, if people were to look in his direction—which they don't—they would only see that white mane and his gloomy eyes.
"What do you see?" the dog asks, bored, as he continues eating relishly.
The bear squints. "I see two large stilt creatures and two small ones, wildly waving their arms and hopping from one leg to the other."
The dog snorts. "Great, absolutely great!" A twinge of malicious joy flashes in his eyes. "Let them freeze a little!"
Suddenly the bear flinches. "Oops!"
"What?" asks the dog, his mouth stuffed.
The bear whispers, startled: "She looked at me..."
"Who?"
"One of the stilt creatures. It looked me straight in the eyes," whispers the bear.
"Which one?"
"The stilt child."
"The bigger one or the smaller one?"
"A little bigger than..."
"Ah... the one with the long brown hair?" The dog rolls his eyes dramatically and sighs. "Of course – Chestnut-headed."

The bear seems impressed. "It grinned at me!"
"Oh, shut up!" hisses the dog. "That beast - Chestnut-headed thinks this is just harmless fun. Now wait! Bare your teeth properly."
The bear twists his mouth, revealing an impressive gap in his teeth, and mumbles, "Ofay."
"And?"
"She... she affroaches."
"What?" The dog freezes. "What are you talking about? Look at me."
The bear looks innocent. "Why fen?"
The dog shakes his head in disbelief. "If you keep this up, you'll be stuffed and hanging on the wall faster than you can say 'peep'."
"Feep?"
The dog snorts. "Tell me... is that how you normally express yourself when you grin like that?"
"I'm not foing anyfhing ..."
"Oh, my goodness!" The dog shakes. "When you grin like that, her heart melts! She thinks you're a fluffy teddy bear!"
The bear stretches his nose proudly. "I flike fher ."
The dog yelps in horror. "That's awful about you! A bear—a huge, powerful polar bear—and you talk like a baby. Can you still be saved?"
The bear shrugs.

"This isn't funny! Now snarl! Chestnut-head deserves it. She ties bows in my fur and paints my toenails – she deserves a little revenge !"
Reluctantly, the bear lifts his lips, bares his fangs, and licks his nose with his thick, pink tongue – but really just to taste it. As soon as he sees the delicate stilt-walking creature freeze in shock, his heart sinks.
"Oh no... poor thing... I think I see tears in her beautiful eyes," he says sadly.

The dog rolls his eyes. "What you always see... unbelievable. But it doesn't hurt." He jumps up from the table with a contented sigh. "If you're hungry, help yourself. There's still plenty left."
The bear shakes his head. "Oh no... I don't even want my cucumber anymore. The poor stilt child..."
The dog demonstratively licks his snout. "Well, my dear, a valuable life lesson: Before you make a big decision or want to change something, you should be willing to take risks. And above all – be willing to learn. Learning isn't always pleasant. There are simply too many unpleasant things and uncomfortable truths in this world..."

The dog should tell the bear about so many unpleasant facts. But as he looks at the bear, crouching like a miserable heap right under the window, and stares into its sad face, he has doubts. In the eyes, he recognizes this boundlessly lonely lament, a longing for family, for closeness, for a future that might not exist.
The dog shakes his head thoughtfully. Can he really tell him that his species is threatened with extinction? That they're still hunted because humans value their fur? That climate change is melting the ice beneath their paws, vital to their survival?
The dog has lived in this frosty wilderness long enough to know all this. Everyone here knows the brutal laws of polar bears: That they are solitary animals. That hungry males sometimes even eat their own cubs to make the females ready to mate again. That even the females aren't safe from their own kind.
He would have to explain all this to the bear. He would also have to tell him what "down" really means. The dog clears his throat, shrugs his shoulders restlessly, and clears his throat again.
Yes, it would be logical and right not to deceive the bear. Not to put dreams into his head.
But then... then he looks at him again. Still so young. Still so full of childlike hope. And what could you possibly offer a young bear in such a bleak world—other than dreams?
The dog remains completely silent for a while. It seems as if he is listening to his own reflections until he comes to a decision: decently has no place here.
Suddenly, he raises his head vigorously and says loudly and clearly into the silence: "To Windsor."
"Wha-at?" The bear blinks in confusion.
The dog nods with a serious expression. "It seems like an idea just occurred to me. You should travel to Windsor."
The bear raises his head. Cautious enthusiasm stirs in his face. "To... Insor?"
"With all your problems, you wouldn't be better off there!" the dog says emphatically, watching closely out of the corner of his eye how these words are received by the bear.
The bear blinks, his gaze becoming dreamy. "Insor..."
"Windsor," the dog corrects.
"Oh yes... Insor! That sounds magifally ."
The dog sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fair enough. Say it as you will. Insor, Windsor... It's fine with me." Then he raises an eyebrow. "But tell me—do you even like tea?"
"Yes, why not?" the bear replies, sitting up a little. Almost offended, he adds, "Every now and then, I love a drop of fairy fea."
The dog raises an eyebrow. It's obvious that the bear has never drunk tea in his life.
"Ah, I see," he murmurs dryly. "I have it from a reliable source that you're not the first bear to have the courage to make contact with a two-legged creature. If I remember correctly, though, it wasn't a polar bear, but a brown bear."

The bear pricks up his ears curiously. "A brown one?"
"Quite right. An extremely stylish, almost aristocratic-looking brown one—with a striking red hat and a long, elegant blue coat."
The bear frowns skeptically as he pictures the image in his mind.
"And you think this stilt creature would also welcome a white one? Without running away in panic?"
The dog waves one paw dismissively. "Well, this stilt creature, as you say, isn't afraid of anything. Especially not of a—well, quite acceptable white one."
"Fhank you."
"Well, you're welcome."
The bear thinks for a moment. "And what did the two of them talk about?"
The dog shrugs. "I don't know. It must have been something about tea, a sandwich, and a handbag..."
The bear clears his throat and shakes his head. "Well, that's what happens when you meet a Brown. Incredibly original – tea, a sandwich, and a handbag. I don't want to get into trouble, but intellectually, we're a lot more sophisticated than the Brown ones."
"No Brown one present who could dispute that," the Dog retorts amusedly.
"Well, I'd take a chance," the Bear says confidently.
The Dog clears his throat in mock-gentlemanly fashion. "No reason to get puffed up. He was just the first. There's nothing to be ashamed of being second. The high-royality person won't care..."
The Bear blinks. "High-royit ...?"
"The Queen, you fool."
"Queen? ... Of what?"
The Dog gasps in disbelief. "Of Windsor, of course! Say, you don't know the Queen of Windsor?"
The Bear thinks hard. Then his face brightens. "I know the President of the World! Well... at least from his face."
The dog snorts. "And what do you get out of it? The President wouldn't invite you to tea."
The bear blinks. "Why not? Doesn't he like a frop of fea?"
"He prefers whiskey, and whether he's so fond of bears, I can't say. I wouldn't want to take the chance. As President of the World, you don't have much time to drink tea—or sip whiskey. Or to meet up with a clumsy polar bear for a chat. He's got enough to do keeping order in the world."
"Does he enjoy it, the President?"
"Enjoy? A President of the World has nothing to enjoy. Just like he doesn't need to be amiable. He needs to know his way around..."
"And? Does he know his way around?"
"I have no idea. He'll probably know."
"And the Queen of Insor, does she know where to go?"
"She drank tea with a bear, what do you think...?"
"Yes, she knows where to go, without a doubt," says the bear, full of anticipation and relief. "How do I get to Insor to see this bear-friendly queen?" asks First of Four, and the dog answers without hesitation: "Well, by bus, of course, how else?"
The bear twists his mouth into an infinitely wide smile in astonishment and asks: " with the dus?"

"What?" asks the dog, thinking he didn't hear right.
"Well, with the Dus! I've always wanted to travel with the Dus."
"Tell me... I don't understand a word."
"Sorry dorry."
"Well, it's fine, as long as you have fun."
The bear is smiling a little less blissfully now and is excitedly sucking on his cucumber. "When does he leave, the Dus?" he asks.
"Well, take it easy with the young horses. We still have a bit to work on you. I have to prepare you a bit for an adventure like this."
"Prepare?"
"Well, what do you think? Do you think the bus driver will just let a polar bear get on his bus like that?"
"He won't?"
The dog rises, jumps onto a low bench with remarkable dexterity on his three legs, and announces, "This requires a certain degree of finesse in planning."
"Oh dear," sighs the bear, "I was the first, but in planing always the fourth."
"Why can't I doubt that?" replies the dog in a dry tone.
"Blast it..." mutters the bear disappointedly.
"You said it, my friend, you said it. But don't worry, these humans aren't so clever that we can't outsmart them. You know? – It's our eyes that make the difference..." The dog puts on his most trusting look, gives it to the bear, and says, "Not bad, huh?"
The bear grins and says, "Night out."
"Now you could add a quiet whine and gently lick the person's hand. How many hearts do you think I'll melt with that? Of course, you can't do that; only a dog of the old nobility like me can. A bear shouldn't lick the back of a hand. I have a better tactic for you. The other one had a hat, we have to stick with that tactic, that was quite clever of him – for a brown one, I mean."
"Well, so great...?"
"Look. Do you see that hat over there? A person of the world must always wear a hat. Only people with hats are allowed to lecture others, give orders, and be self-centered. A policeman can be a nice guy in private, but as soon as he puts his hat on, you'd better take cover."
The bear sniffs nervously at his cucumber. Then he says defiantly, "Oh, I don't really know. I think... well, how should I say it... I'm just not the type for—wearing a hat."
"Oh, I understand! The gentleman is having sensitivities again!" the dog mocks. But then, in a more conciliatory tone, he adds: "But look at it this way: a hat like that is a fine thing and actually suits everyone – it just depends on how you wear it. You're a mighty, awe-inspiring bear! A hat would suit you perfectly."
The dog examines him critically. "Of course, you have to stand on two legs, like those stilt creatures. But you'll manage that with ease! And very important: Your ears have to be hidden under the hat. Humans don't have ears as beautiful as ours."
The bear twists the hat skeptically in his paws, then carefully places it on his head. He rises heavily onto his hind legs, swaying slightly. "But... am I obliged to chat with the bus driver?" he asks uncertainly.
"Why?"
"I'm not much for talking," admits the bear, adjusting his hat uncertainly.
The dog sighs theatrically. "Well, that could actually be a problem. These finger people just talk nonstop! They talk and talk – and usually say precious little. Just idle chatter."
He pauses for a moment, then a flash of emotion flashes in his eyes. "But you know what? I have the solution! Look over there on the sofa – do you see that little device? Human call it an iPhone. I call it a quack frog because it just makes shrill, annoying noises. They're addicted to this thing. As soon as it vibrates, they have to get their hands on it, otherwise they get nervous. And it vibrates constantly. I can assure you."

The dog grins. "So, here's the trick: You take it with you. And if someone speaks to you while you're out and about—on the bus, for example—you hold the quack frog very close to your face and pretend you're engaged in a very important conversation. And then, as grumpily as you can, you say loudly and clearly: 'Grumble, grumble!'"
The bear nods eagerly. "Frumble, frumble!"
"Grumble, grumble—you fool!"
"Sorry dorry."
"Humans are very sensitive. If they don't understand something, they always ask twice. So don't challenge them."

 

"Grumble, grumble," says the bear.
"Exactly! A hint of importance, and the finger people are completely distracted." The dog nods approvingly.
The bear snorts softly. "I wonder what's become of that lovely stilt child I scared so much." He gazes dreamily out the window. "Would you apologize to her on my behalf?"
"Are you serious?" The dog bristles his neck fur indignantly. "I don't talk to human beings! It's enough that I have to listen to them."
"Aren't you?"
"Where would that get us? But you can take it any way you want—if you expect something from it." The dog looks at the bear sideways. "Although, I must say, with that hat... you could almost mistake you for one of them."
"Really?" If a bear could blush, First of Four would be glowing like a traffic light right now.
"I'll give you a paw for that."
Before the bear can ask what that means, the dog urges them to hurry. "Now get going. You don't look all that human, and it's not exactly wise to linger any longer than necessary after wreaking havoc on their home. Once they come in here with their banging sticks, you're done for."
"Oh dear!"
"Well."
"Well then..." The bear swallows hard. His knees are shaking.
"Well then..." The dog shakes his head.
"...I'll be on my way."
With a sideways look, his hat firmly on his head and the quack frog pressed to his snout, the bear peers through the splintered door.
"See anything?" the dog asks.
"Nothing. Just the usual. Trees. The road I came in on."
"No human beings? No car?"
"Nothing."
"Lucky you. They're all at the back of the house. So let's go, it's now or never. Follow the road a bit, up ahead, between the trees, by the little wooden hut – that's the bus stop."

The bear rises heavily from his crouch. His knees creak alarmingly – he stands on two legs far too rarely. At full height, he towers almost to the top of the doorframe. His hat is slightly askew, but his face is chiseled from stone – no smile, just that serious determination in his eyes.

"I'll come back for a visit sometime."

The dog snorts. "Well, I guess you will."

But he doesn't expect it. Not at all. This absurd story will probably resolve itself soon. The bear would retreat to his den, sulk a bit, then forget about the human world. That's just the way it is.
The dog raises his head. His world is that of the finger people. The bear's is loneliness, and cold. In every sense.

 

The dog sinks exhausted to the ground and stretches out all four paws. After all the excitement, he thinks, he deserves a break.
But when he thinks about it, the peace won't last long. Soon, the chaos will truly break out. As soon as his family returns and picks up their sticks with Death in them, the coziness will be over. Probably, the dog thinks grumpily, they'll use him as a stupid sniffer dog. "Come on, find the bear, where has the beast hidden?"
Then something suddenly occurs to him. "Stop, stop!" he calls hastily. "I forgot something! Etiquette! You can't just appear before a queen without proper etiquette!"
The bear stops abruptly. "Etiquette?"
"Of course! She is a queen, after all. There are rules and regulations, that's just the way it is." The dog raises his snout majestically. "For example, her subjects—the fine old nobility, like me, of course—greet each other with a genteel 'How do you do?' The common people may find that strange, but nobility is nobility. And now comes the most important thing: the queen herself! You look like a ghost, I'm just saying... but she won't eat you if you make the slightest mistake. Still, you should know the basic rules. So, when you greet her, do it with an elegant curtsy at the back of your knees and the words: 'Your Royal Highness.'"
The bear swallows. His ears twitch nervously. "That sounds pretty difficult..."
"Nonsense, it's child's play!" The dog wags his tail impatiently. "'How do you do,' 'Your Royal Highness,' and... don't forget to curtsy – that's it."
"How do you do… Your Royal Highness… and don't forget to curtsy – that's it…" the bear breathes barely audibly.
"Exactly!"
The bear pulls his hat a little lower over his face and slowly sets off.
The dog watches him. How he staggers unsteadily on his hind legs down the street, pushing his hat back with a shaky paw, nervously tossing his head from side to side – constantly on the lookout for impending danger. The setting sun bathes his white-gray fur in warm light, and for a brief moment the dog has the dubious impression that the bear is taking a few prancing steps on the pavement. Unbelievable… he thinks with a grin.
The bear, however, feels a weight lifted from his shoulders. He's almost there. Just a little bit more, and he'll be there. Just a little more waiting – and whoosh, the bus would take him to Indsor. "How do you do... Your Royal Highness..." he murmurs a few more times to himself.
The meeting, he imagines, would take place in a magnificent palace. A beautiful, shining... ice palace!
The thought is so overwhelming that a whistling sound escapes his rear end in excitement.
Holy moly, he thinks. This is going to be a thing.
But at that very moment, someone comes towards him.
A large, bearded, stilt creature, wrapped in fur, with clunky shoes and a heavy gait – as if it were in a terrible hurry, but couldn't quite get going.

"A bear!" the creature cries excitedly. "A bear! Did you hear it too?!"
The bear freezes. He's never been so close to a Stilt Creature before—so personal.
His stomach clenches.
"Wh-what?" he grumbles, completely intimidated.
"Over there with the Austrians! That beast tore three of our dear neighbors to pieces—ate them half to whole!"
First of Four frowns. "A bear? What kind of bear?" he mutters, more to himself than to the stranger. "I only know one in these parts...?"
And then it hits him like a blow.
He finds it hard to breathe. His throat feels constricted, the words he could reply stick in his throat. So that's what it is, First of Four thinks, this stupid blathering about putting Stilt Creatures in danger. Yes, that he would have even given in to the temptation to devour them!
It doesn't just make him angry. It also makes him unspeakably sad.
With moist eyes, he remembers the dog's words. So he does as he was suggested: He puts the quack frog in front of his mouth, clenches his paws into fists, and growls loudly and angrily:
"Grumbling, grumbling!"
The fidgety stilt creature breathes heavily and shakes its head at such openly displayed callousness. "Well, I wish I had your temper! I hope for your sake that the beast doesn't cross your path," it says, and just keeps hopping eagerly like an astronaut on the moon.
The bear, with the agonizing pain of disappointment in its limbs, sits down on the small wooden bench in the bus station. It creaks and squeaks quite loudly as it places its mighty buttocks on it. Sadly, he follows the man's path. He sniffs gently and pulls his cucumber from his armpit. Wistfully, he smells and licks it, gently licking the rough skin. He would never hurt anyone—never! That's the truth, he murmurs.
And yet they tell these horrible stories about him. They have no right to. The bear lowers his gaze, shuts himself away in his thoughts, shuts himself off from the world. So he doesn't notice the delicate girl cautiously approaching him—light-footed, like a falling petal. A pretty, pale child, tightly wrapped up to the head. The girl looks at the bear kindly and attentively. She smiles shyly and, with her hand in a thick mitten, pushes some of her chestnut-brown curls, which peek out boldly from her fur cap, back from her forehead. "Are you sad?" she asks the bear quietly.
"Sad?" grumbles First of Four, staring darkly into the distance. The hopping man had disappeared somewhere in the meantime. He's not yet fully aware of the girl's presence. There always has to be something new, he thinks, and says harshly: "I don't want to talk, I don't want to explain, and I don't want to listen. I don't want to be in this ruthless world anymore."
"Oh, don't tell me you're sad and angry? Why are you angry? We were having fun there earlier, weren't we? But you know, sometimes I get really angry too – strange, unfair moments often make me angry at others – even at myself. Sometimes my mom gets really angry at me – because I did something bad. Well, not really anything bad – just a tiny, tiny stupid thing, maybe, but my mom can also be really angry at Dad and my younger sister – and at Willi, of course. I don't really like it when Mom is angry. I don't like it at all when anyone is angry. Maybe you really did do something stupid back there in our house…"

In the house? Willi? Now the heavy cloud of gloom around First of Four shifts slightly to reveal a blurry view of the girl, who says in a mysterious, cheerful tone: "I know exactly who you are. I quickly threw something on and followed you. You're him..."
"He?" the bear murmurs, confused.
"Well, the bear!"
"The bear? Probably the one who broke into a house and killed three of those stilt creatures!"
"Hmm," the child says, confused, and says, "No, I don't know anything about that bear."
"Well, then you know, for a stilt creature, very little."
"I only know of a bear that smashed everything in our house and gave me a real scare when it looked out the window – but actually, despite its uncontrolled roaring, seemed quite nice to me."
"Nice?" repeats First of Four, turning to the girl.
Then a light bulb goes off in his head and the cucumber almost slips out of his paw.
"Chestnut head?" he breathes. Just before he lets himself be carried away with more words, he remembers the dog's well-intentioned advice, pulls himself together, and acts as grumpy as he possibly can: "Oh, Grumble Grumble!"
"Oh, Grumble Grumble, what?" asks the girl, completely astounded. Her astonishment at these rough manners is obvious.
"Grumble grumble," First of Four says thoughtlessly again.
"Grumble grumble, now without the 'oh' too? Really? That's all a clever bear has to say?"
Then the bear puts a paw to his mouth and grumbles in a low, husky voice, "Sorry dorry."
"All right, you little grumbler. That's the right start for a conversation between two reasonable beings," the girl replies. She smiles and nods in agreement. Her eyes shine with joy. She pulls off a fur mitten, raises her left hand in amusement, and blows on her colorful fingernails. "Do you like the color?" she asks nonchalantly.
The bear, whom she affectionately calls "little mumbler," even though he's certainly twice her size, replies with deliberate restraint, "Very pretty." He secretly admires the girl's bright red nails, but remains determined not to give up his role so easily. Moreover, he's still a little offended.
"Would you like me to paint your nails as pretty as that?" the girl asks, clouds of white breath drifting in front of her. The bear looks at her in surprise, as if considering her question. It's a moment of silence in which the two beings, different as they may be, feel a connection.
"Grumble, grumble," the bear says—almost defiantly.
"Don't you like me?" the girl asks, unimpressed. "You gave us quite a fright earlier – but it's not a bear's fault if he behaves according to his nature. After all, a bear that doesn't lumber around a little clumsily isn't a real bear, is it? That's how I see it, anyway. And you know what? Even if you don't really like me, I still like you."
Her voice sounds warm and as relaxed and light as a soap bubble. "Now that I see you up close... you're still quite young."
The bear snorts softly.
"I've been going to school for quite a while now," she continues, saying it as if that settles everything.
"What's your name?"
"First of Four," the bear murmurs.
"Oh, what an exceptionally beautiful name." The girl smiles kindly and extends her hand to the bear. The bear takes the hand in his paw and shakes it gently. "My name is Chiara Waxuan, but lovable bears can call me Chiara." Waxuan is my middle name, and I'm seven years old, but almost eight. And as my dad always says, pretty smart for my stupid age. But I'll tell you something, sometimes I think my dad isn't exactly the brightest himself. He understands very little about girls who are seven but almost eight—well, just a man, too." She giggles mischievously and winks at the bear.
For a brief moment, the two are silent. Then the girl with two first names says, "May I?" and sits down on the bench next to the bear without waiting for an answer.
"You're good," she says encouragingly. "As long as you don't yell like such a fool, it really makes it easy to like you."
The bear clears his throat, embarrassed. "Oh." His voice is so quiet that the girl can barely hear him.
"Don't you have to go home?" asks Chiara.
The bear doesn't answer.
"Stay here, my little mumbler." She smiles at him. "I'll stay a little longer too. There's something waiting for me at home that I don't want to look at at all..."
She grimaces and shakes her head.
She knows her mother will be in a particularly bad mood today.
After a while, she asks:"Where are you going now?"
"To Insor." The bear murmurs quietly, as if it were a secret.
"To Insor?" Chiara frowns. "That's pretty dangerous."
The bear nods shyly. "I know."
"Well, I wouldn't dream of something that dangerous! And how are you getting there—to this Insor?"
The question hits home. The first of four feels his self-confidence get a little boost.
He blurts out, excited: "Not the shower!"
Chiara raises her eyebrows in surprise. "What?"
"I'm not going the shower!" the bear repeats resolutely.
Chiara giggles. "Well, you're quite the one."
The two sit next to each other in silence for a while. First of Four feels an urgent need to put his paw around the shoulders of this friendly stilt creature to warm it. But he doesn't dare.
Finally, the girl asks, "Why do you want to travel to this Insor so badly? Or don't you want to talk about it?"
The bear sighs deeply. "Oh, I'm quite willing to talk about it..." He hesitates briefly before adding, "But I don't know if the noble Wilhelm von und zu would approve."
Chiara tilts her head and looks at him. "Oh, so that's how it is..." and giggles, "von und zu, then? But don't worry. Wilhelm is a good dog. A real rascal, but he'll understand that you want to share your story with me."
The bear takes a deep breath. "The noble Wilhelm von und zu believed there was only one human being in this world willing to converse with a bear..."
"Oh really?" asks Chiara, looking up at the bear. "And who could that be? Who would be brave enough to speak to a wildly roaring bear? Yes, who?"
"Only the Queen of Insor, no one else," the bear answers, his voice firm and full of passion. "I would like to gain her wisdom and share with her what is dear to my heart. I would share many wise things with the queen. But I would never babble as stupidly as the brown one. You have no idea how lonely I feel?" It's quite painful to always be so alone... I'd ask her to help me—"
"Oh, you poor thing," Chiara sighs sympathetically, gently stroking his fur, "my little murmurer."
"My siblings," the bear continues quietly, "my mom—all the other bears I knew—went down below—and never came back."
"Down below? Strange. And they didn't come back? Could it be that you think they died? You know what it means to die?"
"Is it something useful?" the bear asks hopefully.
"Useful? I couldn't say. My dad thinks we all have to die sometime, and when we do, we'll be buried deep underground, from where we'll travel on sweet, winding, fluffy paths to another—better—world."
"Not the showers, perhaps?" the bear asks, stunned by this news.
"Yes, maybe—why not? But tell me—why do you think no one other than the queen would want to talk to you and help you?"
"William..."
"Oh yes, of course, he put that nonsense into your head. Well, I'll give him a piece of my mind."
"Please don't," says the bear, horrified, "we have such beautiful ears, you can't do that!"
"Well, I won't, I'm only joking. By the way—" the girl blurted out, "in case you haven't noticed—"
"What?"
"Me! I'm talking to you. Well, I'm not a queen, and I don't come from this strange island—wherever that may be. You should think that through a bit—"
"Oh!" says the bear again, dropping his cucumber and quack frog in surprise. "Oh," Chiara adds, "I didn't know bears liked to talk on the phone."
"Uh," the bear replies, embarrassed.

My dad thinks I'm still too young for my own silly ball device like this. Chiara sighs and blows a small cloud of breath into the cold air. He believes that children shouldn't stimulate their imaginations with devices, but with their own thoughts and ideas. There's hardly a trace of imagination or joy in these devices.
The bear frowns and listens intently.
"You should know," Chiara continues, "my dad comes from a tiny country. A country that consists almost entirely of gigantic mountains. Even mightier than the mountains here! Not icebergs like we know them, but real mountains that reach up into the sky. And if you climb to the very top, you can touch the clouds with your fingertips. They look like cotton candy—and taste like it too, if you lick them a little."
The bear's mouth opens wide in amazement. "My dad always says this country is so small that even strangers seem like old friends. Whatever that means." She shrugs.
The bear is still busy imagining what clouds might taste like when Chiara continues:
"And my mom..." A smile flits across her face. "She comes from one of the most beautiful and brightest countries in the whole world. Not like here, where it's always dark and the sun hardly shines. It's hot there – all day and night too. There's no snow. No winter. You'd sweat terribly in your thick fur!"
The bear looks at Chiara with wide eyes, fascinated by her stories and the diversity of the world she describes.
"That sounds incredible..." he murmurs.
There's silence for a moment. Chiara's eyes narrow slightly, and with such concentration, the girl conjures up an image she still sometimes sees in her dreams.
"You won't believe this, but we originally moved here from a country where giant flowers grow."
The bear raises his ears curiously.
"And by giant, I don't mean knee-high or belly-high. No, these flowers are as tall as an iceberg! And you can go inside the stem—there are stairs that take you all the way to the top. And when you step on the flower, you can spit down and wait quite a while for the spit to reach the bottom and splash on someone's head. You can also watch the birds as they sail past you, squawking angrily. They just can't understand how humans can be so high up in a flower."
The bear snorts amusedly. "And bees?" he asks suddenly.
Chiara laughs. "Oh, you! There aren't any bees strong enough to fly that high!" She grins and leans back a little. "But you know, when you stand up there, in the middle of the fragrant flower calyx, you can see all the way over there—to the ship. It's a stone ship, set on three mighty pillars."
The bear blinks in confusion. "A ship?" His voice suddenly sounds tense. "I don't like ships that much. They sail around and fish everything away. Then we don't know what to eat anymore. Anyway—how can a ship stand on three towers? That doesn't make any sense!"
Chiara giggles and waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, you silly thing! You can't just sail around on this ship. It's a hotel—but it looks like a ship. And about three thousand people live in it!"

The bear shakes his head in disbelief. "Three thousan? That's quite a number," the bear marvels, wide-eyed. "You can say that out loud," Chiara confirms with a smile.
"Three thousan," the bear repeats, but Chiara could just as easily have said twenty or one hundred and fifty thousand three hundred million. Every number the girl utters would make the bear tremble in awe. The bear only knows the meaning of a single number—four. "But a ship that doesn't float in the sea," he says, "what purpose does it serve?"
"Purpose? What purpose does it serve? It's just beautiful to look at—and people live in it," Chiara replies.
"Oh, I can't imagine it," the bear confesses.
"Well, if it would give you pleasure, I could draw it for you." I can draw really well, you know."
"Would you do that for me?" the bear asks hopefully.
"Why not? The next time we see each other, I'll bring you a drawing. And you know what? I'll draw a picture of all of us. Of you, of Mia, and of me too. Even of Willi, although I'm a little annoyed with him for telling you such dangerous things. Please, you can then hang the pictures on the wall in your cave. It's a common practice among us humans. We make pictures of our loved ones and hang them on the wall. That way we can always look at them when we're longing or when we're home alone," Chiara explains lovingly.
First of Four has tears in his eyes, glittering like twinkling stars, and his upper lip trembles with emotion. "Oh, I would love a picture for my cave. It's really very barren and empty there at home." Would you really do that?" he asks, his voice trembling with excitement.
"Yes, of course," says Chiara, a radiant smile breaking through the gathering darkness. "What do you think? We're friends now, after all. And you know what? I'm not only good at drawing, I'm also a gifted musician. I play my organ, not by music, but quite well by numbers. I know 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,' 'Itsy Bitsy Spider,' and a whole bunch of other songs. And believe it or not, I dance ballet. Do you know what ballet is?"
"Hmm," says the bear, "is it where the stilt creatures run after a ballet?"
"Oh, my dear bear," giggles Chiara, "what you mean is just a simple man's game. Ballet is a form of dance. It's very beautiful and elegant. I'd love to show you, but I'm a little too tightly wrapped up today. Normally, you wear a light leotard, tights—or a tutu skirt if you like—or both. And most importantly: ballet shoes. These shoes are specially made for ballet, allowing you to dance on your tiptoes...”
“Uh-huh, on your tipfoes?”
“...Yes, on your tiptoes,” Chiara confirms, a mixture of excitement and pride in her voice. “It’s an art form that is incredibly challenging and requires a lot of practice and stamina. Imagine balancing your entire weight on the tips of your toes! That’s exactly what makes ballet so unique and fascinating. My mom says ballet combines strength and elegance in a way you don’t find in any other art form.” The bear looks at Chiara with wide, astonished eyes, clearly impressed by what he hears.
“That’s really amazing,” he says.
Chiara nods, her eyes shining with excitement. "I'm sure you'll love it, my little murmurer, ballet is truly something extraordinary." She gazes into the distance, her thoughts wandering to the beautiful ballet performances she's already participated in at her school. The memory brings a glow to her frozen red face. She can hardly wait to share this precious experience with her new friend.
"One day," she says quietly, "we'll attend a performance together. You'll see how magical ballet really is." She pauses briefly, looking at the snow-covered landscape.
"If only it weren't so cold, I'd show you how I do the splits. Or you know what? I can even put my legs behind my head. I'm as flexible as a candle that's been left in the sun too long. Like a stupid snake, as my sister often says. But you know, she's stupid herself and just jealous." She laughs, and the bear can't help but laugh with her. "You'd be amazed, and it won't hurt at all. It's all just practice, you know."
The bear is impressed by so much passion in such a childlike human being.

"And do you know something else?" Chiara continues, "you should think about it: a bear and a little ballet dancer. What do you think of?"
The bear looks at Chiara. He seems to be pondering her words.
"Well, think about it."
"No, I can't think of anything."
"Well, circus!"
"Circus?"
"Circus, don't you know what a circus is? It's the best invention in the world. There's a tent where people come to watch the animals and artists perform tricks. There are lions jumping through rings of fire, elephants dancing on their hind legs, clowns playing funny jokes, and acrobats flying through the air. There's music, laughter, applause, and excitement. There's everything your heart desires. You could be the biggest and strongest bear ever to perform in a circus, you could balance on a ball, juggle with your paws, even ride a bike. And me, along with my sister Mia…”
“Is she nice?”
Who? Mia?” Chiara shrugs. “Yes, she’s nice, of course… but she’s also my sister.”
She rolls her eyes—you know, that special look only older siblings have when they talk about their little, sometimes terribly demanding sisters.
“But you know what? She could be your trainer! She’d teach you everything and reward you with treats. And the two of us—we’d be the stars of the show! Everyone would admire and love us. We’d have a wonderful life in the circus.”
Her eyes light up as she continues:
"What do you think? We'd be the most adorable duo in the whole world. Me, Chiara... the first and only ballet dancer who can float above the ground!"
The bear's eyes widen in awe. "Can you really float above the ground?"
"Well... not really." Chiara grins and puts a finger to her lips. "But don't tell anyone."
She winks at him – and suddenly it's there, that infectious laugh. A light, carefree giggle accompanied by a deep, contented growl. The bear laughs along, his chest thrumming with mirth. For a moment, there's nothing but the happiness they share.
Chiara isn't a baby anymore. Of course, she realizes that the story about the circus is just a dream she started to give the sweet bear a spark of hope.
In the circus, it's okay to lie a little!” Chiara winks at the bear and grins mischievously. “We would be the most incomparable and enchanting duo in the entire world! Imagine it: Our name in giant golden letters for everyone to see! ‘Chiara Wanxu, the floating dancer, and her mighty little murmurer!’”
She spreads her arms as if she can already hear the storms of applause. But instead of jumping up and down with joy, the bear lowers his head. His ears twitch uncertainly, and his voice suddenly sounds very small.
“Oh, I don't know…” he grumbles. “I already have trouble standing on two legs. How am I supposed to ride a bike or juggle balls with my paws?”
Chiara puts her finger to her lips and thinks hard. “Hmm… can you maybe hang on a rope? Or stand on your head?”
The bear shakes his head slowly. "Oh dear... no. I can't do anything. I can't dance, I can't balance, I can't even do a trick..." He sighs deeply. "I'm just a stupid, useless bear."

Chiara lightly punches the bear's stiff fur: "Oh, you! I don't want to hear that!"
She looks at him with wide, serious eyes. "Everyone can do something. Everyone. Got that? Some can do this, others something else. And I bet you're particularly good at something."
The bear frowns. "Really? But what?"
Chiara grins. "Well, maybe you're a master somersaulter!"
The bear's eyes flash, and a small smile creeps onto his face. "A somersault?" He thinks for a moment – and then he grumbles with renewed confidence: "A somersault? Yes, a somersault, I can do that," he says. His voice trembles with excitement. "But maybe that's too easy for the circus."
"Too easy? Come on, tell me! Too easy?!" Chiara puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head indignantly. "What do you think? My dad may be the smartest person in the world, but he can only do a somersault if I help him and give him a good push."
She pauses pregnantly, then leans closer to the bear conspiratorially.
"And my uncle... well, my uncle..." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "I'm telling you—but you can't tell anyone—his belly is a little too big for a somersault."
As she does so, she surreptitiously glances at the bear's belly—but just skillfully enough that he doesn't notice, given his not-so-small belly.
Then she claps her hands. "Well, you see! That's it: the circus is our future! I still have to talk to Mom, it won't be easy, but if Dad gives his okay, then it's a done deal. Because he's easy for me."
Chiara grins—that cheeky, unwavering grin. The girl has a heart as soft as a bunny's belly, even if she can sometimes be hard and merciless when it comes to expressing her opinion.
"But of course..." She purses her lips and tilts her head at the bear. "If you think our brilliant circus career isn't all that important and Insor sounds much more exciting—well, then I don't want to stop you."
She shrugs dramatically. "What's the saying? 'Don't stop a traveler.'"

She waits a heartbeat, then her eyes sparkle mischievously. "But you know what? I could just accompany you—to Insor!"

She throws her arms in the air. "What do you say to that? That would be something, a really super-duper thing – if only."
The girl laughs out loud and, a little tired from all the talking and the day's exertion, snuggles deep into the bear's cuddly fur. "You'll see, this will be an adventure like no dear bear has ever experienced before," Chiara says very slowly and quietly. Her mouth remains open, her eyes already closed. In the quiet and loving way so typical of children, she simply drifts off to sleep on the bear's mighty chest. A few strong gusts of wind hit the two of them. First of four pulls the sleeping child a little deeper into his fur. "What a Remi demi day," he whispers. "Yes, what a wonderful Remi demi day today has been."
Then he hears a quiet chugging, accompanied by a rickety old bus. From the row of trees to the left of the small wooden house, the bus moves slowly towards them like a snail. "Oh, the Dus, he's foming!" First of Four exclaims excitedly, trying to somehow free himself from the sleeping girl's grasp. Determinedly, he flips up the brim of his hat.
As the bus comes to a stop and the double doors hiss open, the bear remembers how the dog had advised him to greet all well-born gentlemen properly. Since he is firmly convinced that anyone capable of driving such a large bus must be a distinguished person, he curtsies slightly and says, with his nose up, "How diddle do."
The bus driver, who finds this quite silly and just wants to get on with it quickly, says grimly, "How diddle what?"
Now First of Four is a little unsettled and wonders if he's done something wrong. "Well, what is it now?" Do you want to come or not?' asks the fidgety bus driver impatiently, shivering a little as the cold air blows in through the open door.

Fearing that the bus might leave without him, First of Four quickly places one of his paws on the bottom step of the door. Just as he tries to pull his massive body up, he recoils. Through the bus's huge, dirty windshield, he has a view, obscured by trees, of the house he so clumsily entered just a few hours ago. He thinks for a moment and turns his head. His gaze falls on the sleeping girl. Enveloped by the shadows of her dreams, she whispers softly, "My little murmurer, where are you?"
First of Four can no longer hold back his tears. Never before has he felt so much affection. His heart beats faster, his thoughts swirl wildly. Amidst the shadows and the silence, he begins to understand that love sometimes appears in the most unexpected forms.
The bear withdraws his paw. He looks to where his quack frog lies, a small smile playing on his lips. He no longer needs him. He's found his own strength, his own voice. And with a final, triumphant "Rooooarrrr," he shows everyone his unwavering determination.
"Well, sorry, it was just a question. If you don't want it, you already have it," says the driver, visibly annoyed. He simply can't stand bullies on his bus, so he shakes the cold from his body and hastily presses the button for the electric door, which hisses shut in the bear's face.
Then the bus, now a little faster, just keeps chugging along. Towards Insor. Now you know—to be honest—the bus only has three more stops until the final stop in the next town. But the nice bear doesn't know that.
First of Four has no reason to regret what has happened in the last few hours. Maybe he's a little ashamed—but he's not sorry. If the human beings hadn't made their caves so tiny and fragile, nothing bad would have happened. And anyway, if these two-legged finger people had been a little more open and trusting towards strangers, a pleasant, but promising, conversation could easily have developed between them.
He follows the bus with his gaze as it disappears into the distance. The burbling of the comforting engine still echoes in his ears. He thinks of the picture the girl promised to draw him, and of the invisible circus that only he and Chiara can see, with its music, with its colors that make his eyes light up. His heart almost bursts with joy to experience these wonders, but at the same time, fear weighs heavily on him. He is very aware that the disgruntled human beings, with their long, cracking sticks that bring death and destruction, will never be stopped by dreams and will come very soon.
He wants to cherish these moments with the three-legged dog Wilhelm and sweet Chiara and her sister Mia, whom he would have loved to get to know better, in his heart. Chestnut-head: her laughter, her joy, her confidence, her kindness in her manner and character, her pretty face with the white front teeth just touching her lower lip, her frosted red nose, and her bright red nails—all of this fills him with a feeling of happiness and gratitude. He quietly and carefully pushes himself back onto the creaking wooden bench, where he embraces the sleeping girl with his powerful paws and presses her to his bear heart, which is pounding wildly with affection.

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