Back at the zoo (how they do have a thing for cages there) we found another bear tattooed with the imprints of children's hands. "How do you think," asked Lynn, "this bear came to be? Who instigated the hand-prints? Did the children ask to leave their prints on the bear? Or, alternatively, did the bear seek the children out?" "More importantly," I added, "if the children sought the bear out, was the bear willing? Or, was it coerced? In the coercion, was there anguish involved? Because, to be perfectly honest, the bear looks somewhat uncomfortable." Poison Pie shook his massive, shaggy head. "You both have got it wrong," he said. "This bear hails from a remote island where all the local fauna looks like hands. The palm trees wave their giant hand-shaped fronds on the beach. Oblong coconuts rippled like balled fists, fall with the fury of gravity to the ground. In the jungle, hundred-fingered bundles of bananas droop from the boughs. So you see, this bear that looks so odd to you here was perfectly camoflaged in its own environs." I drew a deep breath. "Why," I asked Poison Pie, "do you make up such obvious fabrications, then try to pass them off as the truth?" Poison Pie looked honestly insulted. He said, with great hurt in his voice, "The possibility of such a bear seemed a better thing to contemplate than the anguish you proposed." I suppose he does have a point. That's one interesting thing about Poison Pie. Even when the things he says are obviously false, they still have the ring of truth to them.