The battle lines were drawn. The morning sun glistened on the brown coats of Grizzlies, disappeared into the glossy coats of Black Bears, and blinded off the white coats of the Polar Bears. A careful observer could also detect a slight breeze from the ripple of the fur. Thousands of bears were mustered in this valley to finish the battle once and for all with the Babies.
Just 20 feet from the front lines of the Bears lay the Babies--wriggling, cooing, spitting up, flapping arms, and yes, some comatose in sleep. The pinks, blues, and pastel colors of their onesies looked more like a patchwork quilt spread on the hill rather than a mighty army.
The time had come and Bruin, the general of the bears, stood up on his hind legs. He pawed the air with arms that could push over a tree stump or mutilate a hunter in elk country. As one, the bears let out a mighty roar, "RAW-UH-RAWWR!"
At first the Babies did nothing. They were in collective shock. General Gideon, the baby with the tallest hair, scrunched up his face and quivered his lips. In unison the Babies gasped and heaved their tiny diaphrams. Then they let out a blaring wail, "WAAAHHHH!"
The Bears never saw it coming.
Just like that the bears were put to flight leaving nothing behind but scat and defeat.