Pear pearls appear in the mornings of the full moon. They're very rare.
They must forever be kept far away from pears — if a pear comes too
close, the pear pearls disapppear.
     I knew a lady who had collected 26 pear pearls, and kept them in a
locked copper box in the floor safe in her atrium. "You can keep your
pear-shaped diamonds," she'd say haughtily and proudly, over buttered
scones.
    If you asked to see the pear pearls, she'd make an excuse. She harbored
the secret fear that anybody wanting to see them carried a pear secreted
in their clothing, ready to pull it out at the climactic moment in order to
destroy her collection.
     For that reason, she bought two highly trained Belgian pear-sniffing
dogs. But then she developed the paranoia that visitors could carry pear
slices wrapped in waxed paper, surrounded by a layer of coffee grounds,
then wrapped again in foil, and finally sewn into secret pockets in their
clothes. The dogs would never sniff that.
     There were two courses of action open to her: get South African
Foil-Sniffing Hounds, or just close the damn house to visitors. The
latter option was the more cost-efficient one. In the silence, she sat up
late nights  admiring her pear pearls, how their milky green sheen
scintillated in the light. She was a very happy woman.