Like any normal sports fan who didn't watch a minute of baseball during the regular season unless they needed the sleep, I was glued to the set as the Red Sox and Cubs challenged each other to an ultimate duel of self destruction. It was breathtaking to see both teams take leads into the eighth inning of the championship game then suddenly start playing Gumby ball, turn into pumpkin offal and go to seed for another year. What was even more amazing was the fact that all of it was accomplished without even stepping into the same stadium with each other. I'm starting to wonder if either team will ever make it to the World Series without coming to a division playoff heavily armed.

Needless to say the sports debacle seemed to set the stage for more karma carnage around our little cosmic cabin by the drainage ditch. Two days before the final Cinderella team had its knickers blown into the next millennium, a nefarious and socially rude critter came to visit our happy homestead. My first clue that something was amiss was when I stepped out onto the deck to let the mutts out for their morning constitutionals. Garbage had been strewn from the back canopy of my prehistoric pickup, across the driveway and down the beach trail. I knew immediately that, for once, my dog Howard was actually innocent of such a foul misdeed and his diminutive budette, Little Bear, couldn't be suspect either. For one thing, both had been inside all night. Besides, whatever got into the rubbish had to pry open the rear top window, climb partially inside and drag the booty out. Howard is so lazy that he lays down to eat and won't lift a paw to do anything except trundle into the front room and belch to let us know that he's finished another vat of food. Little Bear, on the other hand, couldn't have possibly messed with the trash. She's so minuscule that it would take her several days just to scale up to the back bumper much less drag out anything bigger than a used miniature packet of hamburger relish.

The mystery was solved when I stepped into a significant deposit of odiferous Yogi yuck while stomping through the brush picking up discarded ripped sacks of refuse. It was not an experience that I rate highly as a "must do" while living in or visiting Alaska. The fresh bear scat stench all but equaled Howard's morning breath and was almost as unpalatable. My first instinct was to stuff the debris back into the pickup and wait until dark for the bad boy bruin returned for seconds. Then, morph the miscreant into a driveway pizza and a new pair of furry flip-flops with the aid of a magnum S&W riot gun. My wife, Jane, subtly suggested that our pleasant neighbors might take umbrage after peeling themselves off the their bedroom light fixtures if I toasted the thieving Teddy in the middle of the night. So, I plotted a different type of revenge with a state-of-the-art weapon of mess obstruction.

I strung a thin wire from the trail to the deck where I slipped it around a large chunk of firewood that was set on end. I then put my Vector 1.5 million candlepower spotlight on high charge and waited. About 11 p.m., the wood toppled, signaling the arrival of the devious beast. Sure enough, when I peeked out of the front door window, I could see the shadowy form of a small bear creeping up to the back of the truck. I let it get just comfortable enough to open the upper back window and then slipped outside. The juvenile delinquent blackie had no idea I was there until it heard a soft whistle and stuck its head around the canopy to see what was up. Big mistake. I lit him up right between the eyes with a beam strong enough to melt his eyebrows. I had no idea that bears could fly. It launched up and off the back of the rig like it had been seriously goosed with a high voltage cattle prod and barreled into some alders. Normally, that would have been a prudent move, if it had been able to see where it was going. It must have smacked into every tree in the gully before its vision finally cleared. I also had no idea that bears could swear.

Unfortunately, I have run out of space so can't get into the cattle stampede through the back yard last Sunday afternoon. Nor do I wish to address getting caught in a righteous snowstorm while trying to mow the lawn. You wouldn't believe me anyway. You never do.

Nick C. Varney can be reached at wufferdawg@hotmail.com.