Moose

Moose are afraid of me.

A few days before I moved to Anchorage, my fantastic friend Kate cooked me dinner and made me watch Alaska State Troopers.  It was lovely. And they started by doing a close-up of a moose in the middle of a downtown Anchorage street.

So far, I've been in Anchorage for 11 days, and I have not seen a moose.  I have learned a lot about them.  I know they are big.  I know they are fast.  I know they are dangerous. I know they are not as friendly as the ones in cartoons and printed on my socks. I know that they are allegedly everywhere.   But I have not seen a single one.

Last night, my friend Pete and I went into Kincaid Park specifically on a moose-scouting mission to remedy this grave misfortune.  Apparently this park is supposed to be Moose-Palooza.  The only wildlife we saw was a mouse.  Although, we did spot him twice, for what it's worth.  He says I'm bad luck. (Pete.  Not the mouse.)

I was fortunate enough to be offered a house/dog-sitting job while I wait for my furniture to complete its journey from San Diego.  I was walking to the house from the bus stop this evening when an SUV pulled up to me, slowed down, and rolled its windows down.  A nice Alaskan-looking lady stuck her head out the window and said, "Sweetie, there's a wounded moose about two blocks down.  Look out!"

I wasn't sure what I was looking out for.  Was I looking out like you look out for a shooting star?  Or like you look out for manhole in the road? Or like you look out for ducks on Duck Hunt?  It didn't matter.  I wanted to see this moose, wounded or not.  I crept down the street, hoping Gimpy Bullwinkle would neither charge me nor run away.  But he was nowhere to be found.

It's official.  Moose are either legends or cowards.