Update: The dog, Rosie, refused to go outside for the rest of the morning yesterday. Instead she went upstairs and stared out the bedroom window for several hours. She finally came back downstairs and went outside again around one or so in the afternoon. I am glad she's not a bear-worrier; they do say Golden Retrievers are, like, number four on the dog breed intelligence scale. Not Chasing Bears, I suspect, is a sign of intelligence.
So this morning I am bopping around, doing my morning computer things, when the dog and the cat both come piling into the dog door like the Three Stooges minus one. And Rosie, the more demonstrative of the two, runs to the dining room and starts staring wildly at something out the window, so I figure something's up.
Sure enough, there's a moving black form between the garden fence and a line of an impenetrable thicket of blackberry briars. A bear. And I'm still in my bathrobe.
Faithful readers may remember some weeks ago when I whined because the dog was bringing home random body parts of some unfortunate winter-victim critter, and I was anticipating coming home to a big stinky carcass plunked into the middle of my living room. Now, I think I've established I'm no Martha Stewart, but I DO object to big stinky carcasses in the house, so when the first leg bone came home Rosie had to learn the oh-so-valuable lesson regarding OUTSIDE toys versus INSIDE toys.
And the lesson apparently stuck, much to Mojo's surprise, since the horrific skull she subsequently brought home for us stayed outside until its untimely demise in the driveway. Which is what happens when we leave our toys out under the DeathTrap's wheels.
A couple of years ago--the same day the pope died!--our dog George, after fifteen years of keeping the house safe from squirrels, had to be put down. We still miss ol' George. He was one of those magical smart dogs, even if he wasn't very efficient squirrel-wise.
My Favorite Husband the other day was describing to me the frustration of dealing with a Certain Individual. What it basically boils down to is this: You can't. But My Favorite Husband views that as a challenge and enjoys slamming into the occasional brick wall until he gets tired of it.