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the blood lure, but it proved more than effective. My former big bear friend ignored the well-placed warning signs, and proceeded directly to the doorway following the clues sent out by the freshly dried blood.
Contact was made—electrons sent coursing through the bear body—and she sent snorting and growling and yelping (very unbearlike) toward the boundaries of the Shenandoah National Park, where they’d never permit such anti-bear conduct (haha) but wouldn’t mind a bit a little smoked black bear.
In any event, that was nearly four days ago—the plywood is down and I am happily exposed to the elements. Bread is in the larder, the cats have quieted, and life is great again in Rappahannock.
Except for the fact that the bear has gone. She and I became quite familiar with one another, and neither of us appeared to be overly intimidated by the other. I did my business, she did hers, and I guess we could have gotten along fairly well.
I saw her the other day, not too close to the house, eating blackberries as a bear is wont to do. She did not look at me, and I kind of regret that. I think that she’s a bit angry, and I really don’t blame her. She lives here too.
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