I think this bear story bears telling, even if I’m not sure it was a bear.
It could have been a smaller animal whose overgrown claws were in bad need of a manicure.
The point is that some nocturnal creature knocked over my industrial-strength outdoor trash bin and clawed its way through the heavy plastic liner to feast on the food scraps.
Bears, I remember reading, are especially drawn to the smell of blood. Had I thrown out an undercooked chicken leg? Was it blood from the Band-Aid I wrapped around my finger after I sliced it cutting a bagel? I had to re-wrap my finger several times, meaning I trashed many bloody bandages. My blood pressure was rising thinking about all the possible blood scenarios that could have made it into the bear’s tummy via my trash can.
I remember hearing strange sounds in my driveway the night it happened, but my daughter’s oft-repeated words rang in my ears, “Do not take the trash out after dark.” She seems to think her mother is two steps shy of a life-ending tumble down the kitchen steps. Usually, I ignore her unasked-for advice and let Mr. Moon light my way to the trash cans. However, on this particular night, something made me heed Sara’s behest.
So I stayed in the house thinking about what to write for next week’s column. By the next morning, the story had written itself. When Sara dropped by unexpectedly, I heard a loud shrieking from the driveway followed by a slamming of the kitchen door as she raced inside shouting, “Mom, where are you?”
“In bed,” I yawned groggily to my always awake-too-early-for-her-nightowl mom.
Hand over her heart, Sara leaned weakly against my bedroom door.
“I’m so glad you’re OK,” she sighed.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, maybe because it looks like you had a bear visitor in the middle of the night when you are usually outside disobeying my request not to put the trash out after dark.”
Wait, what was happening? Wasn’t I supposed to be saying that kind of stuff to her? Our roles were reversing even as bear-strewn trash with uneasy smells covered my once clean driveway. An empty industrial-strength trash bin lay on its side with an ominous smile. Somewhere, a well-fed bear was sleeping off its gorge.
I don’t know why lately everything makes me think of 60s sitcoms, but I had a sudden flash of Eva Gabor in “Green Acres,” dressed like a New York model as she tried to adapt to her new husband’s life in the country.
Was I, like Eva, a city girl at heart who just wasn’t prepared for wildlife who made house calls?
OK, Sara, you win. No more nightly trash outings. You scared me straight.
Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on Patriciabunin.com