Last Sunday, I spent Easter dinner with my friend Candy and her family in Maine. Now, I’ve often remarked about growing up in the hicks, but if truth be told, I grew up in a small town that would almost qualify as a suburb, if there was an urb around to sub to. Candy, though, is very rural. She lives in a very mountainous area, and her development borders on woods. Real woodsy.
Well, on Sunday afternoon, as I was leaving, we heard someone off in the distance firing off an automatic weapon — and while I started looking around nervously, she and her kids just shrugged it off. And yesterday morning. one of her neighbors felt like having some chicken. The neighbor didn’t bother with The Colonel or Barber’s or Tyson, though. He went straight for Candy’s coop, and two whole chickens ended up as a bear’s midnight snack.
That’s right. A bear. A bear ambled right up to the back of her house, ripped up her chicken coop, and helped itself to two of her chickens.
I was a smidgen skeptical, so she sent proof.
Here’s a couple of photos of what’s left of her coop. Note her kids’ swingset in the background of the second photo. Here’s what’s left of one of the chickens, and here’s where the culprit left his autograph.
They know it’s a bear because her husband heard the commotion and went out to see what was going on — and, somehow, didn’t get mauled. I’m not sure she’s done yelling at him yet.
Last night she said she was going to wait up and see if the bear comes back again. And she’s got her shotgun to keep her company. She says she’ll only use it to frighten it off, and I’m not sure if that makes her brave, kind, or just stupid.
And this happened not even 72 hours after I was there.
Candy, the next time I come over, mind if I bring a shotgun of my own? And a tank? And a company of Marines?