Eager for the extra cash it would provide, he accepted and made his way back to the digs to get his kit together.
It was with some trepidation that he entered the floodlit ring that night for his first major professional bout. But his nervousness was calmed as he heard the crowd, many of whom were Scottish Canadians, roaring their support when they saw he was wearing the kilt.
Andy won the bout and when he returned to his dressing room he was met again by Frank Tunney, who offered him a two-year contract to wrestle all over Canada and the US. Always ready for adventure, Andy quickly signed the contract and over those two years he refined and polished his wrestling skills. His professional career was by now fully established and, just when he should have been consolidating his position, he agreed to take on the most hazardous bout of his life. He was booked to fight Terrible Ted.
Terrible Ted was no normal wrestler: he was a black bear. At the time of agreeing to fight, Andy was not aware of this, but, when told, he agreed nevertheless. The bear would be chained and muzzled, and, if Andy could hold his own, he was guaranteed a thousand dollars in prize money.
The arena was packed that night, and the air heavy with anticipation. As Andy walked down the aisle and waved to the cheering crowd he became increasingly aware of just what he was letting himself in for. If Ted were to get a good grip he could easily crush the life out of him and it wouldn’t matter one bit whether the bear was muzzled or not.
Ted stood in the middle of the ring, towering above Andy, making strange growling noises through his shiny black muzzle, and Andy swears to this day that, if he hadn’t been wearing the kilt and hadn’t felt that he would be letting Scotland down if he didn’t go through with it, he would have turned and fled.
Suddenly, a thousand dollars seemed a paltry sum to be paid for risking one’s life, and, as he dodged the massive swipes of Ted’s front paws and manoeuvred himself out of corners where he might be trapped within the huge bear’s grasp, Andy not only felt genuinely more threatened than he had ever been before, but he also recognised the enormous spirit of the magnificent creature.
In the following days he kept reliving the fight with Terrible Ted, which had been so unlike fighting another man and yet strangely similar. In those few minutes an uncanny understanding had grown up between the bear and himself – an understanding hampered only by the fact that Ted was kept constantly chained and muzzled. ‘What sort of relationship could develop,’ thought Andy, ‘between a man and a bear if that bear was treated, without fear, as a genuine equal?’ From that moment onwards Andy determined that he would one day find out.
Long before we were married, Andy and I agreed that we would do everything we could to share our lives with a wrestling bear. This was to be no ordinary wrestling bear, however, chained and trained only to entertain, degraded into a dangerous clown. That was not the idea. Andy had a vision of an animal that would spar with him on equal terms, a friend and companion whose dignity and independence would be recognised, and who would show the world that trust and companionship were the only ways to achieve results; a wrestling bear who would discredit for ever the tradition of bearbaiting and wrestling with mutilated animals.
We knew that the chances were slender, and the responsibility enormous. A bear can live for up to forty years and cost a fortune to feed. Our whole lives would have to be devoted to him.
Bears were so much a part of Andy that it never occurred to me to question his obsession. I met my first bear in the bear park on Loch Lomondside, where we were enquiring about cubs. An enormous she-bear with two little teddy bear cubs crossed the road in front of our car. She came round and glared menacingly through the car window, which was mercifully closed, and then went on her way. I was very afraid, but nevertheless, from that moment, I was infected by Andy’s enthusiasm.
Finding a bear to own was a different thing altogether. Some zoos adopted an incredulous and snooty attitude towards us: they agreed it was preposterous to suppose that such unpredictable and extremely dangerous animals could be made ‘pets’ of, and they were not prepared to sell a bear into the barbaric slavery of chained performance. We thought at the time, ‘What difference is there between chained performance and close imprisonment?’ and tried elsewhere.
Then, in December 1974, we heard that a she-bear in the Highland Wildlife Park at Kincraig was pregnant. We contacted Eddie Orbell the director, and after meeting us he said he was prepared to sell us a cub for £50, but he insisted that the cub remain with its mother until it was weaned. He didn’t expect that we would keep the cub for more than a week. At this time Mary, the she-bear, had not yet given birth.
There were three cubs in her litter, christened by Andy: Atlas, Hercules and Samson. Atlas was the largest, and Samson the smallest. They seemed more adventurous than Hercules, rolling about and playing with one another, while Hercules stayed close to his mother. We saw them first in February 1975, and were captivated by their antics, especially by little Hercules. He was already standing unsteadily on his hind legs like a little furry man and had a ring of white baby fur round his stumpy neck.
We left him to suckle under the expert and gentle care of Eddie and said that we would be back as often as we could to keep up with his changes. Over the next seven months we travelled to Kincraig many times, watching him grow in leaps and bounds, until the great day came when he would be ours.
We had borrowed a crate from Edinburgh Zoo and travelled up in our Volkswagen caravanette, towing our horse trailer to enable us to spend the night in the park and leave in plenty of time for moving Hercules the next morning. That evening we drank mugs of cocoa and went over our plans with Eddie and his wife, Joanne. Although we couldn’t persuade them that we would achieve our dream, at least Eddie could see that we would take great care of his precious baby. This in some measure allayed his doubts about letting us have Hercules in the first place.
We were up with the birds next morning, impatient to get on with the difficult task of moving Hercules away from his mum and into the horsebox. He was ten months old and weighed 13 stone. Even at this age he was stronger than the average man. It was necessary to tranquillise him before moving him. Eddie gave him the shot while we all kept clear of his sharp teeth.
Even as he went under, his little lip curled in a half-hearted snarl of defiance, but by the time he came round we were ready to go. Farewells were said and everyone agreed that they expected to see Hercules back within the month, but all were very interested to hear what the outcome of our adventure would be. We backed the trailer carefully down the cinder track and were off on the open highway to Sheriffmuir, stopping after an hour or so to make sure our precious cargo was safe, and have a bite of breakfast in a Little Chef restaurant.
Over the blue Formica table we wondered nervously how long Hercules would take to adapt. Would the movement of the horsebox throw him into a rage? Andy had saved a piece of his roll and spread it with tomato ketchup as a treat for our new baby. He took it gently and his little sleepy eyes lit up as he licked off the sweet sauce.
We had built a spacious den for Hercules behind the Inn, very close to the back door. It was made of white-emulsioned stone and connected to an