The emotional scars are still there. I don’t need any further reminders of my first, and only, Lassie movie. Don’t know how old I was when I saw it. Don’t care. Remember leaving in hysterics. Don’t think I’m alone in that.
As a result, I don’t read books about dogs, cats, rabbits, etc. I always fall in love with the title animal and then have to watch it meet its maker.
It follows, then, that I never read any Bambi stories. Never dipped a toe into those waters. But perhaps I should have. Maybe Bambi led a stress-free life. Maybe he just spent his life frolicking in the forest. Perhaps he never came anywhere close to harm’s way. I’d like to think so.
But then. There was an obituary in this week’s “The Week“ which gave me a wee glimpse into Bambi’s life and I didn’t like it. At all.
See, Gary Paulsen died. He is the author of more than 200 books, which sold over 35 million copies world-wide. Many of those books were about dogs and young people struggling to survive in the wilderness. He says he’s a “teller of stories” but, to the end, describes himself as a romantic. He said he always wanted Bambi to make it out of the fire.
Hang on! Wait a second. What fire? I didn’t know Bambi was in a fire. Maybe I should have but I didn’t. And, of course, I don’t know whether he got out alive or not. Don’t tell me though. I need to hold tight to some of my happy images. So many are fading.