Of course she is not my bear—or anyone’s—although for the four or five minutes when she stood on my porch, I imagined she was. And I would never be foolish enough to open the big plate glass French doors that separate us and go out and claim kinship.
She sauntered up from the arroyo on one of those beautiful October days when the whole world of wildlife seems activated, the birds gathering seeds, the squirrels burrowing, and the bears finding whatever they can to build some fat against their winter hibernation.
So she strolled up as she has done on many other days, a brown bear, more tawny than dark, perhaps a yearling, skinny under her thick hide, weighing maybe a couple of hundred pounds. My dog Pip was snoozing inside and I was at this screen when something compelled me to turn and see her.
By the time I grabbed my camera, she had stood up—maybe four feet tall on her hind legs—and was swatting at my bird feeder. She brought it down with a crash, destroying it and spraying seeds, but she had no interest in eating them. It seemed what drew her was just the fun of batting the hanging feeder and watching it crash down.
Then she sauntered over to my bird bath, stood on her high legs, and carefully, without tipping it over, sipped a few times. Again, it didn’t seem that she was desperate but rather enjoying a few sips of water she has often tasted before. She didn’t drain the birdbath but sank back down to her four feet and stood surveying the scenery.
She must have heard a dog barking somewhere. Her small ears rose, pointed, and she galloped back down into the arroyo.
She’s not my bear, she’s certainly not my friend, but I am very happy to share my porch with her.
I’ll have to get another bird feeder.
[If you love bears, you might be interested in reading my short story, “Bear,” available on this site.]
Delightful!
Thx