Mostly moose

Nothing all that funny happened last week, so I've decided to turn to a serious subject for once: Moose.

That's right. Moose.

I'm not sure how we can accomplish this, but I think if we all put are heads together and throw in a biologist or two and have a couple of focus groups, we can solve this dilemma.

What dilemma, pray tell? Lean close to your newspaper. Closer. Listen up.

THERE'S NOT ENOUGH MOOSES AROUND HERE.

There, I said it. I let it all out. How do I know there's not enough moose? Because every time an in-law shows up, it's my job to go find one. You'd think an animal the size of a Meals on Wheels bus would be easy to find.

But no.

Just ask George and Lorraine.

George and Lorraine are my aunt and uncle in-law. They came to visit a week or so ago, and it was my father-in-law's job to be their tour guide. I, of course, had to help.

Bob, who comes out West from back East about eight weeks a year, knows his way around Montana pretty good by now. So he was named the unofficial tour guide. All I had to do was give him helpful tips, like boy, that Charlie Russell Museum in Great Falls sure is nice or I hear Plentywood sure is pretty this time of the year.

Bob would nod his head and off he went with George and Lorraine. They went to Yellowstone. They went to the National Bison Range. They went to all the museums in Kalispell. They went to Bozeman and Missoula and Butte and Glacier Park and Waterton, and along the way they ate at fine restaurants like Sizzler and Perkins and yes, yes, they even went on a train ride from Whitefish to East Glacier.

They traveled something like 20,000 miles in a week.

They saw the deer and the antelope play, and elk and bison and mountain goats.

But no moose.

George, who is from Pennsylvania (Motto: Welcome to Pennsylvania, we have no moose) was sorely disappointed. Oh, how he wanted to see a moose. He wanted to see a bear, too, but that's his own fault. If he had stuck around, he could have seen one in the neighbor's yard one night. Another night, there was a bear snooping around the junk van my kids use as a makeshift horse tack room. That's what you get for going home early.

George let us all know he hadn't seen a moose. He'd come back from one of their 5,000-mile journeys and tell us all about the wonderful things he saw, and then end the conversation by clearing his throat and saying, "But we didn't see a moose."

Then he'd give Bob the bad eye, as if Bob should have a 1,500 pound moose in his back pocket.

Bob would then give me the bad eye.

I'd just shrug.

You have to work to see a moose. Moose don't come easy. They're sneaky for their size, and I'm lucky if I see a couple-three in a year. But as luck would have it, I was hiking in Many Glacier last week and one popped out the brush right in front of me. I took a bunch of pictures of him. He was sort of pretty, munching on the fall colors.

When I got home that night, I looked at Bob with that knowing smile.

"Don't tell me," he said. "You saw a moose."

"Yep," I said.

Bob gave me the look of death

What could I do? I just kept smiling and moved away slowly. I was afraid Bob would hit me. And I bruise easily.