Bearly Bearable

A few nights ago, just as dusk was falling, I was laid back in a reclining pose, listening to music. At these times, my eyes are most often closed, as I become immersed in the mood of the song. For some reason I opened them for a moment, to have my attention grabbed by the motion of something large and dark, at the corner of my vision. I turned my head toward the object, to spot a bulky, moving, black shadow outside—barely visible in the twilight.

Chompsky the dog was reclining on the bed, so it couldn't be him; besides this critter was much larger. Our neighbor has a huge dog, so I next wondered if his dog Duke had wandered by. But Duke has never visited us, and this creature I was seeing had a round butt and no discernible tail. Holy excrement! It seemed to be a bear!

I cut short the music and bounded from my chair, headed toward the window, through which I spotted the creature. My wife, alerted by my excited moves, asked what was up. A bear is wallowing around, not six feet from the house, I exclaimed! We got down on our knees, to better see it in a lower window, and watched it slowly turn this way, then that—obviously searching for food. Within a couple of minutes it turned and wandered ponderously up the hill toward the garden.

We looked at each other in wonder, trying to fully absorb the event. In the 34 years we've lived here, we've never spotted a bear. We have a neighbor who's told us several times that a bear resides in the area, but he's also the kind of guy who's convinced that our woods are crawling with coyotes and cougars. 
 
Several years ago we believe we were visited by a bear in the night, after surveying the destruction of our bird feeder and bee hive the next morning, but that was not proof positive that it was indeed a bear. I once spotted what appeared to be bear poop in the woods, but still no irrefutable evidence. I do not claim to be an expert on animal scat...it could have maybe been an overgrown raccoon, for all I know.

As we tried to accept what our eyes had viewed, we wondered if the bear was still around. Was it up there, destroying the garden? Had it decided to attack the trash can, as was done a few years ago by a previous bear-like visit? (I had decided that that earlier event was probably a bear, as the plastic trash barrel had suffered several puncture holes—about the size of what a bear claw would leave.)

I gingerly and silently stepped outside, to see if Bruno was still around—keeping close to the door, in case a hasty retreat was in order. Bears are not aggressive critters, I believe, but I did not wish to test this one's tranquility. It seemed to be gone. The next morning, as I checked out the area, I could spot no damage.

My wife did some internet investigation the next day. Bears forage for food in early morning or at twilight—that defines them as crepuscular critters. They are omnivorous, feeding on most anything they encounter. Virginia black bears are shy and rarely belligerent. (Maybe I could have wandered farther from the door, the previous evening?) Their territory is very large—being up to 20 square miles for a female and as much as 100 square miles for a male. Roaming around that expansive range is likely why we've never seen one before. Maybe it'll make the rounds back to our yard in another 34 years. If I'm alive at 111, I'll be ready for that visit.

Bear Faced Assault--Part 2

What critter had caused such damage? The only local animal that seems to fit the circumstantial evidence is a bear. Nothing else around here is that big, has such fierce teeth, and goes for those kinds of prizes. We have had neighbors tell us from time to time about seeing bears and other creatures such as cougars, coyotes, wolves, wolverines, and a lion or two. (Where’s the elephant?) We’ve been rather suspect of their accounts—never having spotted anything more fearsome than that old coon. But after 28 quiet years, I guess it may have been our turn. I repeat: there is no proof that a bear swept through in the black of night, but it seems to be the most likely scenario. Not being positive of its identity and reluctant to jump to conclusions, I’ll call it Brutus.

Brutus did not get much sustenance. I hadn’t added seeds to the bird feeder in a few days, so it was nearly empty. A couple of hungry doves could have finished off what was left in a few minutes. Not much of a meal for big Brutus there. Our trash barrel contains only non-recyclable refuse. We compost any tough or inedible vegetable pieces and let the dog clean any food particles from most other items. Brutus at best had an old butter wrapper to lick clean. Pretty lean pickings there. The beehive had been empty for a decade or so—after the last colony was killed off by disease of some kind. Maybe all the destruction was due to a pissed-off Brutus discovering too few goodies to have been worth the work?

Yes, there was one more piece of evidence of Brutus’s spree: Cecil the cat was gone. Although the dogs stay in the house overnight (to prevent them from barking at apparitions in the night and disturbing my light sleeping pattern), the cat patrols nocturnally, hopefully putting fear into the hearts of local rodents. (He stays in during the day, so the birds can flutter around safely.)

And the cat was really gone. A day and a half later, he skittishly reappeared, taking mincing steps and glancing warily about. He’s an easily spooked feline. I can imagine him spotting Brutus and not stopping for breath until he was a county or two away. It probably required a day and a half for him to renegotiate the same route he’d covered in 10 minutes in the dark of night—imagining Brutus hot on his trail the whole flight time.

So what do we do now? I have little interest in offering Brutus any other tidbits, should he return. He got precious little the first round. If he thinks the larder is empty (a bare bear cupboard?), maybe he’ll move on to more rewarding territory… maybe to some of our more imaginative neighbors’ trash. Thankfully it’s spring, so the birds can find sustenance in the burgeoning insect population for a few days, before I try to resurrect the feeder.

A little research on the internet suggested suspending the bird feeder some 9-10 feet above the ground, which should be above the reach of Brutus (if he’s a bear, of course). We moved the trash can into an outbuilding. That ought to keep it safe, behind a sturdy door. Since the beehive offered nothing more interesting than an old mouse nest, Brutus shouldn’t be pondering a return for the long-gone honey.

The best response, I think, is just to wait for a few days, to see if our friend Brutus was making a one-time raid. It’s been 28 years with no such assault, until now. With luck, it may be another 28 years before he (or his offspring) returns. If so, that’d be somewhere near my 110^th birthday, so I’m far less likely to have a problem with it.

[Update: I rehung the bird feeder, 10 feet up. Brutus returned several days later, but found nothing more than a bag of sawdust to disturb—leaving an impressively large paw print with claw holes behind. The cat disappeared for only half a day this time.]

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…