Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Winter – Sign of―Bump, Thump, Clunk―Winter’s End

Open Gate

   Half past nine last Tuesday night, I sat in the Adirondack chair, looked over the computer in my lap, and gazed through the sliding glass door. Reflections of the coffee table and me blended with the deck railing. Country dark engulfed the south garden.
    Bump.
    On the sofa, Spence, who’d driven to Cleveland for the day, said, “I did desk work between meetings. That quiet two hours made the trip easier.”
    Thump.
    Were the cats creating mischief? I turned.
    George and Emma sat in the hall with ears perked.
    Clunk.
    No snow covered the solar panels so snow wasn’t crashing to the ramp. And the air was too warm for the logs to crack with temperature changes.
    Bump, thump, clunk.
    Spence’s eyes met mine. Holding our breaths and each other’s gazes, we listened.
    Stomp.
    The motion activated light illuminated the deck.
    Spence stood and walked behind my chair.
    Tromp.
    Because the tromping creature wasn’t a mouse, I whispered, “Turn off the light.”
    Stepping to the coat rack, Spence reached to the wall switch and flipped on the porch light.
    Clonk.
    “Turn off the great room light!” I hissed.
    He flipped the great room light off.
    On all fours, a black bear plodded into view.
    “He’s big.” Spence folded his arm across his chest. “Must be four hundred pounds.”
    I stared at the long brown snout waving back and forth. Maybe the bear smelled the dregs of sunflower seeds in the empty bird feeder. “Four hundred pounds?”
    “Well, I’m guessing. I didn’t put him on a scale.”
    Creeping around the end of the sofa, George and Emma peeked through the glass door.
    The bear stood on his hind legs and faced the great room. The top of his head reached two inches lower than the top of the door, and his paws rested against the glass on either side of the feeder. He stroked the glass as if testing the material.
    Could the bear break through the glass?
    George and Emma crept back to the hall.
    The bear nibbled on the plastic seed dish. He pulled his head back and stroked the glass with his paw again.
    Get your camera, dummy.
    A black bear against the country night―too dark.
    His snout’s in the deck light.
    Move and draw his attention? No way!
    The bear licked the seed dish.
    You’re missing a great opportunity.
    I crouched behind my computer screen. The bear wouldn’t break through the glass door, would he?
    The bear lowered to all fours and padded toward the porch.
    Spence looked out the front door.
    My deodorant stopped functioning. “What’s the bear doing?”
    “He’s just looking around. Seeing if he can see anything.”
    The cat fountain burbled.
    “He tried to pull the top off the potting soil.”
    I visualized the old kitty litter bucket with a yellow bottom and red top. That lid gave me trouble too.
    “Now he’s rummaging around in my tool bucket.”
    Stomp, tromp, clonk.
    The bear ambled past the glass door.
    Though bears have good hearing, I couldn’t stifle another question. “Do you think he can see us?”
    “No.”
    I inhaled a deep yoga breath, and the bear’s butt disappeared behind the log wall.
    Spence, the cats, and I held our bear-visiting postures.
    The refrigerator hummed for hours―well, for a minute or two.
    The clocked chimed nine forty-five, and the cats walked side by side to the bedroom.
    Spence patted my shoulder then sat on the sofa.
    “I kept thinking the bear could break the glass door.” I laughed.
    Spence didn’t laugh. “Yeah. He could.” Spence picked up his computer. “I’ll take the feeder down in the morning.”
   I stretched. “I’ll check the gate in the morning. Since the gate bottom rubs against the ramp, hopefully we just pushed it closed and didn’t latch it.” I yawned. “Otherwise the bear would’ve pulled the ring out of the log wall when he yanked the gate open.”
    Wednesday I woke to Spence singing, “Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic.” He slid the glass door open and poured sunflower seeds into the empty bird feeder.
    “You changed your mind about feeding the birds?” 
   “Yeah. It snowed.” He pointed to the deck. “The birds tapped on the window. ‘Hey, old man,’ they said. ‘Where’s our food?’”

Chickadee on Bear Licked Dish

    Birds swooped to the feeder―evidently they didn’t mind frozen bear saliva.
    After breakfast I grabbed my camera, slipped my bare feet into boots, and threw on a winter jacket. “Want to come for a walk in the snow?”
    Bare feet on the coffee table, Spence waved. “You go. I’ve got to catch up on road notes.”
    Crows cawed, cardinals sang birdie, birdie, and woodpeckers drummed in the woods. My boots crunched snow while I circled the house then stopped to stare up the ramp. The gate, keeping George from escaping, hung open as wide as its hinges allowed―four-hundred-pound-bear wide. The ring remained screwed into the log wall so the gate hadn’t been latched. But the hook held a tuft of wiry, black and brown bear hairs.
    Sheesh. I didn’t need proof of which critter had bumped the gate Tuesday night.

Bear Hair