Bear-Faced Assault--Part 1

For 28 years we have lived in the northern Shenandoah Valley and (knocking on wood) have never been attacked by anything more fearsome than a fat old raccoon—and he was more confused than threatening. (I think he got lost on his way to his girlfriend’s den, one spring morning.) Upon moving out here from the city, urban friends imagined all sorts of invasions that thankfully never came. What sort of invasions? Dastardly things, such as motorcycle gangs, pumas, wolves, vampires, and a stray sasquatch or two. Life has been pretty tame here though, with garden-raiding deer the major menace so far.

So far, that is, until a few nights ago. Shortly after rousting from bed one morning, I peered out the window to see what birdies might be at the feeder, to be greeted with the sight of it in strewn in pieces on the ground. Normally, it hovers about five feet above the grass, swinging safely above leaping squirrels and raccoons—saving its offerings for songbirds. The damage was far more than just a suspension cable somehow snapping and dropping the feeder to the ground. It looked as if it had been savagely disassembled with a sledge hammer.

I let the dog out, to investigate the scene of the crime, while I threw on some clothes. I watched him gingerly sniff over the debris, spookily jumping every few moments, as if the smell of something frightening lingered in the air. Convinced the coast was most likely clear, I followed the dog out. Something big had visited in the night… big enough to reach up, tear the feeder apart, and pull its remains from its perch. Not a seed was left.

Deciding to patrol the area for other possible evidence of vandalism, I next saw the trash can on its side, with its once neatly-ensconced bags torn asunder and scattered over the yard. Looking closer, I noticed two significant holes punctured in the can’s heavy plastic sides, as if some large mouth with piercing teeth had wrestled with it and won. The can’s twist-lock, “secure” top had been untwisted, unsecured, and cast aside.

Looking off along the trail of trash into the woods, I saw the beehive toppled from its perch and busted into several pieces. The dog continued to sniff the scene, jumping back every few moments. His nose and my eyes were painting an intimidating picture.

More on the attack next time…