Today, I cleaned a giant pile of bear shit out of my backyard.
I mean, I assume it was bear shit, although I did not see the bear in question producing the shit in question. I can’t imagine any other animal shits that big.
I sent my husband an email after I spotted it from across the lawn: “Our backyard has a giant pile of shit in the middle of it. Bear-sized shit. I want to move to Manhattan.” He called to tell me that, if I really wanted to, I could leave it for him to deal with when he came home.
I really wanted to. I left it.
But then rain threatened and I knew that wet bear shit would be harder to clean up than dry bear shit, so I took our garden shovel over to the giant black mass, hoping that perhaps it was just a pile of leaves I had misinterpreted.
Nope. Definitely bear shit.
I’ll spare you the description.
So, I tossed it in the woods behind our yard and left the shovel in the backyard, hoping the coming rain would at least spare me the indignity of cleaning the bear shit off the shovel.
In case you were wondering, this was not what I signed on for when we decided to move to the far-reaches of the suburbs. Foxes, yes. One stop light, yes. Limited restaurant options, sure.
But not bear shit in the backyard.
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