One of the problems of working late into the night is that it tends to limit one's shopping options on the ride home. Seriously, I'll be heading home after another productive day of journalism when I suddenly realize I'm out of fabric softener or Kraft Easy Mac, and I have to hurry up and stop at one of the local supermarkets before they close.

So it was the other night, when I pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket in Mansfield and made a mad dash to the beverage aisle to replenish my depleted stock of Diet Dr Pepper. After picking up a few two-liter bottles of my current addiction and a few other sundry items and checking out, I made my way back through the near-empty parking lot to the brand-new Tree Hugger and popped the hatchback to load the bags.

Suddenly, I heard a gruff voice from behind me.

"Hey, aren't you that 'Fearless' guy?"

Startled, I smacked my head on the open hatchback. This isn't the first time that someone has recognized me in some public place as a local sportswriter of lengthy tenure, but it doesn't usually happen in a dark parking lot in the middle of the night. Quickly regaining my composure, I turned to greet the voice - with every intention of suggesting that sneaking up on someone in a deserted parking lot at night was not cool. Then I saw it. Dark. Furry. Not human.

I could barely get the words out of my mouth.

"You ... you're a ... a ..."

"Bear," it said. "Seriously, yes, I'm a bear. Nice powers of observation there."

I was rooted to the spot. I had read the stories of the recent bear sightings in the area, but there I was, standing alone in a parking lot, staring into the cold, dark eyes of a juvenile black bear with nothing more to defend myself than a couple of bottles of diet soda and a can of tire cleaner.

And it was talking.

"Bears don't talk," I said.

"How do you know? Have you ever asked one? I'll bet not," it said.

"But ... but how? And how in the world would you know who I am?"

"You'd be surprised what we find in your trash cans," the bear said. "Years and years of newspapers stuffed into them, along with the boxes, bottles and other containers with pictures on them and words to explain the pictures. Hey, if we're smart enough to get into your trash, don't you think we'd be smart enough to eventually figure out what it was all about? Oh, and by the way, your neighbors aren't recycling enough." "Thanks," I said. "I'll tell them."

"Not a problem," it said. "Anyway, I thought I recognized you from the picture on your column, but you really don't look like that any more."

"It's an old picture."

"Get a new one," it said. "Anyway, what I wanted to ask you about ... how come you never write about the Bruins?"

I must be dreaming, I thought. Knocked out by hitting my head on the hatchback, yeah, that's it.

"Seriously," the bear said, standing up on its hind legs and gesturing with its right paw. "You write a lot about the Patriots and girls' basketball and some guy named Mike Redding, but you never write about hockey."

So maybe I'm really knocked out and my head is face down in a puddle under the exhaust pipe of the Prius. May as well indulge my subconscious. "I'm not that big a fan," I said.

"Well, me neither," the bear said. "My cousins up north are much better on ice. I'd rather sleep in during the winter. But sometimes during those long months, with all the highway noise and all that, it's pretty tough to sleep in the den. So I like to read the papers we bring back from foraging. I thought the Bruins had a great season this year. Too bad they lost to Carolina like that."

"Yeah," I said. "But wait. You don't like being on the ice, right? So ... I guess the only reason why you like the Bruins is because you're a ..."

"Bear? Duh," it said. "I also like UCLA basketball, and in the NFL ..."

"Let me guess," I said. "The Chicago Bears?"

"There you go," it said. "Hey, how do you think Jay Cutler's going to make out there? He's a little bit of a crybaby, don't you think, from the way he got himself in trouble with Josh McDaniels and got traded?"

"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe he's crazy like a fox."

"We eat foxes," the bear said.

My eyes widened. The bear laughed.

"No, actually, we prefer nuts and berries and leafy greens," it said. "We might throw in some ants and wasp larvae, or an occasional rabbit, mouse or squirrel for variety's sake. Don't worry, you're too fatty for my tastes. Got to keep the cholesterol count low. But I do admit to enjoying Cocoa Puffs or pulled pork sandwiches or other tidbits you humans throw out."

"Uh huh," I said. "I guess that leads me to this question ... why are you here?"

"We live here," the bear said.

"I mean, here, in this parking lot. Talking to me. Aren't you afraid of humans?"

The bear laughed. "Come on," it said. "I'm a bear. You almost wet your pants when you saw me. I can smell fear, 'Fearless.'"

"Good point. But why aren't you in the woods?"

"Look around you, big fella," it said. "Where are the woods? Everywhere you look, houses, subdivisions, new shopping areas. I read the papers. I've heard that those new strip malls don't even have tenants yet, but you're still building them. We used to have a nice hill to ourselves across town, but now they get old rock bands to play there every week in the summer. Where are we supposed to go?"

I told the bear that I had seen more deer, raccoons, possums, wild turkeys, foxes and coyotes prowling the streets of the area this year than at any other time in my life.

"We're all getting pushed out of what would be our natural homes," it said. "So get used to us. And watch out, too. I'll give you points for owning a hybrid, but that thing you're driving wouldn't stand a chance against even a moderately-sized deer, let alone me."

"You're not that big," I said to the bear, which looked to be about 3 feet tall and about 150 pounds.

"I'm just a kid," it said. "You should see my mom."

We chatted a little longer. The bear was a young male, and said he wanted to co-exist in peace with the humans ("Just don't leave your babies or Chihuahuas outside at night," he said) so he could grow up and sire a den full of cubs. "Maybe even send the girls to Ursuline Academy," he said. "Sounds like a nice place for bears."

But before long, it was apparent that the store was closing and more people would be coming out into the parking lot.

"Gotta go," the bear said. "I'd tell you not to write about me, but I've read your stuff. No one will believe you, so knock yourself out."

"OK, thanks ... er, I don't know your name."

"You couldn't pronounce it," he said.

"So what do I call you?"

"Anything but Yogi or Boo Boo," he said as he disappeared into the underbrush across the street. "I'm smarter than the average cartoon bear."

MARK FARINELLA may be reached at 508-236-0315 or via e-mail at mfarinel@thesunchronicle.com. Read Farinella's blog, "Blogging Fearlessly," at thesunchronicle.com/farinella.