SIDE STREETS: They shoot bears, don't they?

When I moved here in 1994, I was thrilled to be surrounded by wildlife other than cockroaches. (Enough about the newsrooms where I worked.) 

I’d always lived in cities. I’d spend my vacations in national parks hoping to see a deer. Or a chipmunk.

Suddenly, I had huge puncture holes in my plastic trash cans from bears looking for food. I’d brag and show the holes to flatlanders who came to visit my wooded Rockrimmon home.

Today, I keep my trash inside and hardly turn my head for a deer.

I’m more interested in the bobcats that hunt neighborhood cats. Or the goshawk that sometimes rests in a Ponderosa pine behind my house. Or the coyotes that wake me with their chilling death howls in the night.

Or the bears.

I love the bears. I’ve seen them sitting in Monument Creek as I biked a trail with Anna, my daughter.

Many times I’ve awakened my wife and kids after a mother bear and her cubs emerged from the open space behind our house, triggering security lights.

We’ve watched them knock neighbors’ birdfeeders from trees. And strip chokecherry bushes clean.

Last fall, we stood shocked as a sow angrily turned on her young, adult cub and chased it up a tree. (We were eye-to-eye from our bedroom window. See it on my blog.)

I consider it a privilege to live among the animals. Mostly, I’ve enjoyed my front-row seat to nature.

When a bobcat raided our rabbit hutch and attacked our dog, I was upset. But it never occurred to me to call the Division of Wildlife. It’s the price of living in their habitat, I reasoned.

Then, a couple months ago, I was loading luggage into my car for a predawn trip. The garage door was open and while I was inside the house, I heard a commotion in the garage.

I opened the door and was confronted by the 200-pound young adult bear. He was trying to open a refrigerator. I slammed and locked the inside door and pounded on the walls. I scared him away. (But he left  a nasty calling card.)

I shrugged it off and showed photos to friends.

Then a couple weeks ago, I was unloading groceries in the evening. Again, my garage door was open and I was inside the house. Again, the bear came in. This time he opened the fridge and drained a gallon of juice.

Pounding the wall didn’t scare him this visit. He stayed and pried open a plastic tub of dog food.

He was not fazed by my yelling and throwing a broom. Finally, I ran to my car and laid on the horn.

He left. Grudgingly. For a few minutes. Then he returned, glaring and huffing as I swept up the dog food.

He scared me. All I could think was: What if my 11-year-old Ben had ridden up on his bike at the wrong time? I couldn’t shrug it off.

While I’m sad Division of Wildlife killed six bears last week, I understand how the people felt when they found bears in their homes.

I wish there was an option other than killing them.

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