Last night I was chased by a big brown bear

Last night, I dreamed I was in a large wood, with cabins and trails and wolves who howl as you press your head to the pillow. In the morning, I took my long walk to see the sun fall through the lattice of the tree leaves. I reached the farthest rim of the park, the last cottage and a woman who was just packing her final suitcases into her Subaru outback.
“G’morning,” I breathed and smiled at her.
“Best be careful.” She said and nodded toward the outhouse in the woods just beyond the road. “Think the bears are hungry.”
A clapboard of planks housing a latrine under the arch of pines shook. The wooden door swayed a bit. She opened her car door. “But I needed the bathroom,” I say. It’s so ungracious, so human, such a thing in the woods to realize.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like to help. But I’ll miss my flight.” She opened the driver’s door and put her right foot in. “You better get on.”
And the outhouse door bounced open and the broad back of a large brown bear backed out. I didn’t wait for the bear to turn around.
Her car backed up the road over pavement. It was solid ground and uphill. Downhill there was brush, limbs, maybe rabbits, deer, and camouflage. Brush and other bear-like distractions and below was the camp meeting house, a glass walled A-frame.

I raced downhill with all the agility and speed I held when I was twelve. My legs were agile and strong, my feet were solid and sturdy and my speed was miraculous. So I reached the meeting house and turned to see the bear standing twenty feet away, the light coming from the house confusing him, messing with his vision. He was smelling me out. He was tall, brown and shaggy and sniffing the air.

I opened the door and the click was like a shotgun to him. He lowered and lumbered straight for the meeting house, an A-frame structure with only two rooms, a large meeting room and a small office. All the walls were glass except the door to the office, the bottom third, a solid panel, would hide me.

I raced inside and the camp dog raced out, barking and spinning, the black and brown spots on his white back spinning as he circled and yipped, his teeth bared and his ears on alert. The dog ran into the great room and I knew how to live. I knew what would happen. The bear was at the front door. I pulled the office door nearly shut, lay on the floor, pulled up close to the door and breathed the mushroom mildew scent of the floor, the metal smell of my own breath, and heard the dog growl, and bark, his claws ticking on the wood floor, faster than flamingo dancers. The bear’s heavy mud-cased step and sweep of the arm through the air terrified.

I raised my head. Saw the bear catch the dog, heard the cry, and put down my head and prayed that it would be enough, that it would satisfy the bear.