Eats popcorn and leaves.
A time stamp on corresponding security footage shows that the incident took place at 8:08 p.m. on April 19. There is a velvet-rope stanchion set up to usher customers into the theater. Employee Jasmynne Palmer is in the background tending the concession stand. She has a smile on her face, one phone in her hand recording the moose, and a second phone glued to her ear.
Another ear appears in the bottom corner of the camera frame. Then a face. Then a neck and a large hump before the entire moose comes into view. It negotiates the velvet rope and steps toward the concession stand. Palmer backs into the corner and continues recording. That’s when the moose turns to a counter on the right and begins snacking on some unattended popcorn.
“Oh my Gosh bro,” Palmer says to the movie-going moose. “Go outside. That’s where you belong.” Outside is indeed the proper place for a moose in Kenai. The peninsula on which the town sits is home to some 6,000 of them, according to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. It’s a world-renowned destination for both wildlife watchers and moose hunters alike.
In an interview with Alaska News Source (ANS), Kenai Cinemas General Manager Ricky Black, Jasmynne’s uncle, said the moose must have been tired of eating bark for the winter. “They were just letting some of the cold air in, and that’s how this happened,” Black explained. “We prop the door open quite often this time of the year because it’s just so nice outside, and you want to let some of that fresh air in.”
by Paul Richards, Field & Stream | Read more:
Image: YouTube
[ed. This isn't unusual in Alaska. Black bears also invite themselves in through open doors (or just by crashing through windows) from time to time. But perhaps the most famous urban moose was the party animal Buzzwinkle. See: Recalling Alaska’s most notorious drunken moose, the street-smart Buzzwinkle (ADN):]
"Buzzwinkle's name was coined by Anchorage Daily News columnist Julia O'Malley in November 2007 after a moose downed a few too many fermented crabapple cocktails in the courtyard of Bernie's Bungalow Lounge, across the street from the Nordstrom store in downtown Anchorage. When O'Malley and I arrived, the massive bull was standing rigid, knees locked, with his wide-set eyes fixed in an inscrutable expression. A long strand of small white lights tangled in his antlers attested to some careless twig noshing in Town Square earlier in the day. The most obvious sign of life was the cloud of vapor venting from his nostrils with every deep exhalation. He was blotto, and he knew it. Too large to fit in a taxi, we left him to sleep it off in the fenced courtyard. After he revived, Anchorage Daily News photographer Erik Hill captured Buzzwinkle's unapologetic, nonchalant departure -- party lights still firmly affixed.
Although nameless before that incident, Buzzwinkle had been a well-known character in downtown Anchorage for years. He was often seen strolling slowly along urban sidewalks or crossing streets surrounded by what in Alaska passes for skyscrapers. Buzzwinkle was street smart. When I worked as an Alaska Department of Fish and Game biologist, I once watched him wait patiently for a red light to stop traffic on West Ninth Avenue before confidently stepping onto the crosswalk and ambling into the Delaney Park Strip. He specialized in foraging on ornamental shrubs and the vestiges of birch and other native trees that remain in the city's center. Undisturbed moose are notoriously phlegmatic. Buzzwinkle was unperturbed by people and traffic. He was large enough to command respect from awestruck commuters and shoppers. It was seldom necessary for him to throw his weight around."
"Buzzwinkle's name was coined by Anchorage Daily News columnist Julia O'Malley in November 2007 after a moose downed a few too many fermented crabapple cocktails in the courtyard of Bernie's Bungalow Lounge, across the street from the Nordstrom store in downtown Anchorage. When O'Malley and I arrived, the massive bull was standing rigid, knees locked, with his wide-set eyes fixed in an inscrutable expression. A long strand of small white lights tangled in his antlers attested to some careless twig noshing in Town Square earlier in the day. The most obvious sign of life was the cloud of vapor venting from his nostrils with every deep exhalation. He was blotto, and he knew it. Too large to fit in a taxi, we left him to sleep it off in the fenced courtyard. After he revived, Anchorage Daily News photographer Erik Hill captured Buzzwinkle's unapologetic, nonchalant departure -- party lights still firmly affixed.
Although nameless before that incident, Buzzwinkle had been a well-known character in downtown Anchorage for years. He was often seen strolling slowly along urban sidewalks or crossing streets surrounded by what in Alaska passes for skyscrapers. Buzzwinkle was street smart. When I worked as an Alaska Department of Fish and Game biologist, I once watched him wait patiently for a red light to stop traffic on West Ninth Avenue before confidently stepping onto the crosswalk and ambling into the Delaney Park Strip. He specialized in foraging on ornamental shrubs and the vestiges of birch and other native trees that remain in the city's center. Undisturbed moose are notoriously phlegmatic. Buzzwinkle was unperturbed by people and traffic. He was large enough to command respect from awestruck commuters and shoppers. It was seldom necessary for him to throw his weight around."
