Muh mère - she was a beluga from up in de Saguenay.
Papa – castor - a beaver, of course.
A saltwater beaver - liked to fight
and liked the ladies. Tabernouche. No matter their skin or their
ways.
So, that’s me. A beaver with no fur –
white and slippery.
The English, they call me “the fugging
useless beaver” – “the Fub” – they say – and beat me with a cane - cause like I
say – got no fur.
But I got me a beluga brain, big teeth, and
a bit of a mouth so I get to talk and think – got away to tell my tale.
I got the other kinda tail too. Not a
bad one. Kinda like a flipper hooked to me ass.
Anyhoo, the French and the Indians - they
leave me alone cause – like - câline - I got no fur, so I gets close
to their camps and hear their talk and eat their scraps.
One day, Agonquin guy, he throws me some
fish meat - and I come closer and he throws me some more and I come up to his
hand.
We're friends, and I decides I’m goin’
to let him come along for a ride up the river if he lets me sit at the
front of the canoe and smell the breeze.
For the most of it, I keep quiet and listen
– no talkin’ – but when I sleep, I dream, and I dream of the beatings and say
“Fub, Fub … Fub.”
And that’s now my name – at least my name
for this story.
So, we heads up the river til we get to the rocks and my guy and the others in the canoe get out, wade to shore, and climb up with their packs and pull up their boat for a hike through the woods.
Me. I swim and dive to meet them later on.
I find a nice rock and some sticks to chew
- and wait.
But they don’t come - and they still don’t come.
So, I get bored - and do what I hate
most.
I walk.
Through the woods, down a trail, and over some
logs - and there by the swamp, my guy and his friends are standing, those that
are alive - with hands in the air surrounded by guns and swords and red coats.
One of the red coat ones lifts his blade
--- and Algonquin guy turns his head. He sees me in the bush and laughs
and shouts “hey, Fub.”
The red ones turn and see me.
My guy he says “oh great Spirit Beaver,
bring scalding sores upon our enemies and break us free.”
The red coat puts down his sword and stares
at me, then he stares at my guy, and then he stares at me again.
About this time, I figure it’s as good as
any to break the silence and show off my beluga and beaver speech.
“Would you like me to put the sores on
their eyeballs or their groins?” I say.
They left swords and guns on the ground as
they ran up the trail - my Algonquin guy
and his friend picked up the best, threw them in the canoe and we heads up
stream - me sitting at the nose, sniffin’ the wind, and trying to pass another mess
of trout through my innards.
Fin