The bears were invading Altadena. There were apple orchards, and the growers left barrels of apples sitting around. They gave apples to the Waldorf school up there in the shadow of the San Gabriel mountains so the kids could have nutritious organic snacks, and those apples were sitting around outside, too. The bears got word and came down the mountain.
I was living up there in a big old house with my sister Van and my brother Mike. They were young--as if the dream took place decades ago, but I was the age I am now, I think. We had a baby we were raising, and a bear came into the house. I saw the bear and grabbed the baby, but the bear caught us as I was running up the steps. I thought it best not to pull the baby's foot from the bear's mouth. The bear wasn't biting the baby. Just licking. Licking like it was the most delicious baby it had ever tasted. "Quick!" I called. "Get the peanut butter!" And Van and Mike came with soup spoons and long-handled serving spoons and spatulas, scooping peanut butter as they ran toward me and the baby. They waved the spoons at the bear and the bear turned around, leaving me to run upstairs with the baby where I could hide and block the door with all the furniture in the nearest bedroom room. Through the railing, I could see Van and Mike dropping the spoons one by one; the bear pawing and licking them as if they were lollipops as Van and Mike backed away.
In real life the only animal that scares me more than bears is sharks. Critter jitters. I can get them really bad. Babies I'm okay with.