Way to go, guard dog

Friday afternoon was beautiful here -- clear blue sky, no wind, boats out on the lake and hummingbirds buzzing around the feeders. I poured a big glass of iced tea and Woody and I went out on the deck to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.

I sat rocking in our deck swing, paging through the latest issue of Backwoods-Dwelling Government-Hating Luddite. Woody was around the corner of the wrap-around deck, out of my sight but apparently trying to work something out of his paws. He’s always barreling headlong through bushes, brambles and briars, and ends up with all kinds of stuff stuck to his coat. Scritch scritch scratch – the sound of paws scraping on something. He’s pretty good at working out wherever gets stuck to him, so I thought I’d leave him to it.

I was soon engrossed in the exciting cover story – “Is it okay to own a computer if you only use it to threaten government officials?” – and in the background I kept hearing Woody. Scritch scritch scratch. Scritch scritch scratch. Finally I decided I’d better give his paws a hand. I put down the magazine and got up to go around the corner to pry out whatever was stuck on him this time.

Take a look at the pic of Woody off to the right. Behind the deck railing is a set of cement and stone steps leading up to our deck. Beyond that there’s nothing but wilderness, trees and the Mission Mountains. Twenty feet behind that barrel of flowers there’s an old tree stump. There was the real source of the scritchy-scratchy noise I’d been hearing – a black bear, delving into the trunk for a snack of bugs and grubs.

Okay, now what? Woody must be asleep or he’d be barking at the bear. The wilderness area is the Forbidden Zone to Woody, but he’s been known to forget about the rules when there’s a critter chase involved. I didn't want him taking off after the bear, so I thought I'd sneak around the corner, wake him up and shoo him quietly into the house.

I go quietly around the corner . . . and there’s Woody, wide awake, bright-eyed, staring intently at the bear with an expression of cheerful interest. He looks at me, like “Looky there, that bear’s hungry, huh? Been watching him for awhile now,” then went back to watching the bear. No chasing, no barking, no attempt at notifying his humans that there’s a frickin’ bear 20 feet away. Way to go, guard dog.

Now the bear’s watching us watch him. I called Woody, opened the patio door and he reluctantly went into the house. “Don’t see why I gotta go in. I was just quietly minding my own business, watching that bear.” Then I grabbed something to shoot the bear. Don’t be silly. I mean my camera. But when I stepped back out on the deck again, he looked up – “oh crap, she’s back.” He ran off before I could snap a picture. Dammit.

I sit out on the deck all the time with a book or a magazine. Hell, Dean lowers the swing down into its fold-out position and naps out there on cool evenings. Nothing to worry about, because our ever-alert guard dog always barks at bears.

Saturday morning, as we had cappuccino out on the deck and took turns keeping an eye out for bears, we decided Woody’s new name is Bearwatcher. Not Bearchaser or even He Who Barks at Bears. More like "He who stares silently at bears with a big goofy grin on his face."

Saturday evening we were having dinner on the deck when Woody decided to play the Running Game. He takes off in a blur of fur, dashing down the steps, stops at the embankment at the edge of our driveway, sticks his head into the thick treeline there and barks a few times just to show off, then trots back upstairs and does it again.

Well, we thought he was just showing off. Then there was a crashing in the trees, and a black bear lumbered out and into the clearing below. Woody came bounding back, ears up, head high, tail high, prancing up the stairs. “See? I can bark at them and chase them off if I want to.”

Okay, you’ve been promoted to “He who sometimes barks at bears.” Way to go, guard dog. I feel semi-safe with you on quasi-alert.