The Tacoma Hotel was a famous destination for those traveling West at the turn of the century. It was the city’s crown jewel; a point of pride to the citizenry and something to write home about (see Kipling, Twain, and Muir).

One of the most famous residents of the hotel was a 700-lb grizzly bear named Jack. Jack’s story is the stuff of legend in Tacoma. Jack was a drinker, and a social drunk at that. He escaped regularly but never attacked anyone. And then one evening he was shot by a rookie cop walking his beat. I found a lot of adjectives attached to the stories of Jack, like “beloved,” “jolly,” “popular.” Though in all my research, not once did the word “abused” appear.

I’m hoping to print a broadside tribute to Jack, so I searched through miles of microfilm in the Tacoma Public Library’s Northwest Room (an amazing resource for history buffs). I was hoping to find some eulogies that may have been published in memory of the “beloved” mascot. Instead I found lighthearted accounts of abuse and neglect. It was a disheartening discovery. Though it may not be much of a surprise that animal rights wasn’t a hot-button issue in the 1890’s. The newspaper mentioned how often he was provoked by his “admiring audience,” who threw tin cans and birdshot at him.

I first found Jack in a photograph in a book of historical photos of downtown Tacoma. He was hanging off of a perch that looked like it was built for a giant parrot. The Ledger revealed that Jack hated that post because he once fell off of it and almost broke his neck. So the only way to get him up there would be to chase him with a wheelbarrow, so the perch would be his only place of refuge.

All of this news was pretty difficult to read, but I found that even the fabled memorial service was not what it seemed. After Jack was shot, he survived for another day in pain before the taxidermist came and put him out of his misery. Jack’s hide was mounted, and the meat was donated to the butcher who put on a free barbecue for the city. None of this was quite what I expected to find. Sometimes a fable is just that because the truth is unpalatable in the context of today. I can’t help but draw parallels to Jack the bear, and Ivan the gorilla. At least Ivan got a second chance at a better life, and nobody ate him.

I didn’t search much more into where the stuffed Jack ended up. The Tacoma Hotel burned to the ground in 1935, and I assume, Jack along with it.

So many words lost to the fire
but none so mourned as those
dedicated to a beloved drunk
stumbling down South A Street
Deserving of a more noble death
than to be shot in the neck
by a rookie cop who did not know
what else to do on that night
about a 700-lb. grizzly bear
(they should have stuffed him along with you)
I will write a new poem for you, Jack
as soon as I finish my drink.