You didn’t believe me when I told you that bears eat moths, that bears can fatten up on them.
You told me that I was thinking of bees, that bears swat at bees as they eat honey.
You made some joke likening bears eating moths to whales eating krill. It was the kind of joke that you think impresses me because it’s clever and you came up with it quickly. I think you paid too much attention in school.
You didn’t believe me when I told you that some monkeys can swim underwater.
You told me that I shouldn’t define putting one’s head underwater as swimming. You said that by that logic any monkey could swim.
You shook your head when I tried to explain about the monkeys in the mangrove forests off the coast of India. You didn’t let me finish before you made a Jane Goodall joke, which I was quick to interrupt.
You didn’t believe me when I told you about the flying pigs of South America, about the bat-like wings they developed over millions of years to escape the jungle predators.
You told me there was no such thing.
You made a joke about pigs flying, but you got the wording wrong. You kept reworking the punchline until it made sense, but by that time you realized that I’d made up the flying pigs and you didn’t know what to do.
You believed me enough to mock me, and for the first time I beat you.
