Okay, it's Friday afternoon, I think. It's been a long month. We're all tired. We're all anxious. Friends, pull up a chair and pour yourself a drink, because I wish to tell you a tale.

OK Boomer (the Parks Canada Beaver): A Twitter story.

When I was in university, I got a summer job as an interpretive guide at the Peterborough Lift Lock, at one time the world's highest hydraulic lift lock. It's actually quite clever. One day the upper lift opened accidentally and a boat fell out, but that's another story.

All Parks Canada guides are bilingual. I barely passed my agonizing oral exam. ("Quel est ton sport favori?" "Oh, um, j'aime... le baseball!" *long silence*) I was also the only member of staff with a giant head and neck. Thus, when called upon, I became...

Boomer, the Parks Canada Beaver.

If you've never been a mascot (Homer voice: YOU HAVEN'T BEEN?), it's like being locked inside a prison cell only slightly larger than your body. I know what Egyptian mummies know, from their eternities inside their sarcophagi. Like being stuffed in the trunk of a car, but furry.

My costume was old. The head was made of Styrofoam. At some point, some Boomer of Summers Past (the 1970s, I'm guessing) had smoked in that thing. There were nicotine stains inside the head. It was like being in a small cave. There were stalactites of ancient sweat in there.

Once a wasp flew inside my head. Can you imagine? Like The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, but hot. Very, very hot. And worst of all—you can't really see. My costume had a huge hula-hoop inside of it, to make me a very fat beaver. My feet were only a rumour to me.

I was terrified I was going to fall into the canal. I wouldn't have survived. And nobody would rescue me, because Boomer's face was locked into a smile. People would think I was happy and waving. The last thing they would have seen were my huge teeth, disappearing into the murk.

Because you know what's very strange about being a mascot? People forget there's a human inside those costumes—kids of course, but adults, too. It's odd, how quickly people get used to the idea that a giant anthropomorphic beaver is walking in their midst.

For all those reasons, I would often retreat to the parking lot for both physical and mental respite. I have never been punched in the balls so often. I had a woman hit me with her purse because I couldn't see (or feel) her child, wrapped around my leg. It was exhausting.

One day I was in the parking lot, minding my own beaver business. I could see, vaguely, a class of first graders in the distance. Suddenly they caught sight of me and charged. Like the Walking Dead, but fast. And I don't know why, but I did the dumbest thing I could do: I bolted.

Well, try running in that outfit. They caught up to me at the top of a big hill. Which they pushed me down. Because of the hula-hoop, I barrel rolled down that hill like an enormous wheel of cheese. They came after me, like they were charging into some ancient Scottish battle.

That's when the beating began. Punches and stomps and flying elbows. I started throwing them around—I pinned a couple of those future psychopaths—but they were relentless. Wave after wave of small, violent children, taking their turns at the pinata.

Finally one of them pulled off my furry paw, revealing my clenched human fist. "It's a human man!" he cried, and they scattered, leaving me prone on the grass, looking like I'd been struck by lightning. My tail was gone. My paw. My hat the size of a cauldron.

The class later wrote Boomer a letter of apology. My mum still has it. "We're sorry we messed up your day," it starts. Then kid after kid details his role in the assault. "Dillon is sorry he yanked Boomer's tail off." "Michael is sorry for pulling on him."

And then it ends, "PS: We had a very good time!" That was June 1995. Which means those kids are now, like, 30. I hope they still sit around, drinking beer, laughing about the time they beat the hell out of Boomer the Beaver. That really would give me a permanent smile.

Stay safe, everybody. Stay home. Be kind. Be cool. Do whatever you do best, and be a helper. And we'll all get through this, together.

Your friend,
Boomer.