Running Bear

Running Bear

Two nights ago, at about six, our lab mutt started whining, pacing and looking out the window.  There followed the sound of a pickup truck, her very favorite vehicle. Most of the time, people just circle our drive and go back down the road, satisfied that nothing interesting is out here. Much to her dismay. In our dog’s world view, anyone, including any stray member of the Manson family, is Prince Charming if he is driving a pickup.

There was a knock at the door. When I answered it, I found a middle-aged man in the most up-to-date camouflage fashion. He announced he and his buddy were running bear. Could they please wait in our driveway for their dogs to appear from the woods?

‘What are you doing?”” I asked stupidly.

“It’s a sport,” he explained patiently. “We don’t hurt them, we just chase them with dogs, tree them, take pictures and let them go.” He smiled.

“How do you know your dogs are coming out of those woods?”

“They have GPS chips in their collars. We know they’re coming down.”

“Our land is posted.” I pointed out.

“Oh, we weren’t on your land, Hon. We came over from the reservoir.”

Hon??

“We own those woods up there. If you and your dogs are in them, you’re on our land. Besides, which, there might be some debate whether it’s good for bear to be run to exhaustion, depleting the fat stores it’s built up for hibernation.”

He looked at me pityingly. Another tree hugger who was against Sport.

I wonder: Is this really hunting? The bear might think so. It was chasing and catching, but not killing. It sort of reminds me of the water-boarding defense. We don’t actually drown anyone, so it’s not torture. We can’t help it if those fraidy cats think they might be drowning.

I thought to ask his name and where he was from. So and so, from upstate New York.

An out-of–state sportsman chasing bear on my land without asking. Hmm.

“What kind of dogs are those? Hounds?” I asked—although I didn’t hear any baying.

“They are Plothounds. Very friendly, like Labs. You throw a steak in front of them and a bear scent, they’ll go for the bear, every time.”

Our dog, who is pathologically friendly, would go for the steak.

 “We call ourselves Houndsmen, by the way, not hunters. We work with D.E.C. Hon. They was a guy over in New York who had a bear attacking his hives and we ran him out a couple times. He never came back. We prevented that bear from being shot.”

I supposed it was better to run the bear off the beekeeper’s land than to shoot it, but I wondered (silently) if the beekeeper had tried electric fence draped with bacon. I asked The Houndsman’s name again and said he could wait in our driveway for his dogs.

He thanked me for my hospitality, without a trace of irony, and we parted.

I do a lot of flip-flopping about bears. They are magnificent. I would not hunt them, though I have tasted and enjoyed bear meat. But I like bears as animals enough to avoid eating its meat again.

However, they ravaged my beehives four years ago. I’ve heard they will attack sheep. They are not my best friends. They are more like tricky acquaintances with whom I’d like to keep on cordial if distant terms. We wave from our respective corners of the property, but no Christmas cards, no invites.

But the Houndsmen change things. Sport or no, they are trespassing, ignoring my very expensive (fifty cents a pop) Posted signs. Maybe I add a preface to them: THIS MEANS YOU. ASK FIRST. THIS IS NOT YOUR LAND. DO YOU WANT ME TRAIPSING AROUND YOUR PROPERTY UNINVITED??? Etc.

The Houndsmen require me to fine tune my policy. I’m not crazy about the bears getting too close to my animals, shopping in my compost heap, loitering around my carefully secured trash bins. I don’t even have bird feeders.

I heard recently on NPR that black bears in western national parks have displayed a preference for mini-vans. Mini-vans=kids=spilled snacks=the jackpot! I am trying not to teach my local bears bad habits. But running them? I think it’s harassment.

I just don’t like it, Hon.