View of a Bear

Living in a pocket-sized town on the NW Coast was a different experience than suburbia in a sprawling city. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone has a dog or two or three in their pickup. Possums, raccoons, deer, and black bear roam between properties and the ocean and bay. I saw a porcupine on the beach once and said to no one except my dog, “Look! A porcupine!” We three were the only mammals on the beach.

My dog, Ruby Tuesday Queen of Mars (Ruby for short), traveled with me in my old ‘76 Celica with the blue checkered seats, from Colorado to Washington after my husband and I decided to divorce. My parents owned three acres on the coast, with an older home built back from the edge of the Pacific. It was close enough to hear the breakers and worry about King Tides because it was below sea level.

They weren’t living there yet, so I had a welcome spot to land and lick my wounds. I was charged with taking care of the house.

The trip there was an adventure in itself. I’ll still never understand how Ruby slept through my skidding into a snowy ditch, being narrowly missed by a semi. I was traveling in the Fall with some dicey weather, but I was anxious to get away. After my car finally stopped its skid, she popped up in the back seat and looked around as if to say, “Ooo! Potty break?” Fortunately, I wasn’t stuck as it was a young swirling snowstorm, not yet built up. I was shaken, though. But Ruby sure wasn’t, and that was helpful. A few happy licks to my face helped me regain my composure and got us back on the road.

Driving over The Columbia River almost had me chucking my wedding ring into the deep channel flowing under the bridge, but I resisted the urge. Ruby was busy sniffing the salty air and taking in the sites.

I had a constant companion in this dog of questionable parentage. I was grieving and healing while she was urging me to get outside to see the new world we were inhabiting.

The town was so small the one stoplight was turned off in the winter once all the tourists had left. It was surrounded on three sides by water and was built on a long narrow spit of sand called The Long Beach Peninsula.

The house was surrounded by forest, with a narrow path leading through those trees, then the tall dune grass to the ocean. I loved watching her butt ahead of me, tail held high. She was a black and tan, long, short dog, probably a mix of Dachshund or Basset and some sort of Shepard with a big streak of stubbornness. I was supposed to be the pack leader, but in truth, she was the leader in most things, and I was happy to let her make the decisions mostly because I was still healing and too overwhelmed to be a good trainer.

Before the town attracted property buyers and hotels, the beach was always empty when she and I ventured out. I was grateful for the house’s mudroom room, with a hose, as she enjoyed rolling in every disgusting thing she could find. Long-dead seagulls, long-dead unidentifiable sea creatures, and piles of bear poop were prime targets.

One black night (nights there were incredibly dark), I was awakened by her growling and doing a low warning “wuff.” That's not a whole bark or frantic barking but just enough to billow out her lips. She was doing a dog whisper, "pssssst, get up but be quiet and come see," while staring out the large plate glass window. The bottom of the window was low enough for her to look out.

I slipped out of bed and crawled over to see what was alarming her. I kept the light off to be able to see better.

Four feet from the window was a black bear, happily tearing into one of the wood birdfeeders I had hanging from the pines. He had taken it down and was expertly ripping it apart to have a sunflower seed snack.

I was a girl from the suburbs and not educated on bears. Or how strong single pane glass might be.

Putting my arm around Ruby, we both silently watched our guest. Somehow she knew not to bark. Perhaps, even though she had rolled in the poop of this kind of creature, she didn't know what it was. Or maybe she was also unsure how strong single pane glass might be.

I thought if she let loose with the barking, the bear might decide to silence the annoying noise. Now I understand, most likely, the bear would have taken off into the trees. But this was my first ursine encounter so I figured the best course of action was none.

We sat there the entire time the bear snacked, which wasn't long. I could feel Ruby's body leaning into me and hear her breath. It could be the bear knew we were there but wasn't bothered. Either way, he ambled off into the pines.

The next day I picked up the shreds of the birdfeeder while Ruby furiously sniffed the grass and trees. We were not in the suburbs anymore. We were on three acres of land in an old house sandwiched between the Pacific and Willapa Bay.

The adventures ahead were many. These mainly involved me chasing after her. On the bay side, she'd get a bad case of the zoomies out on the mudflats, knowing I couldn't chase her there. 50 lbs can zoom. 120 lbs can sink. On the ocean side, if I wasn't careful or the wind was noisy, a car would go by (they were rare, but allowed, which made me angry), and she would take off after it. No amount of calling her name would bring her back. I had to run until the driver realized the car was being chased by a crazy woman and would slow down. Ruby was too short to be seen. Often, they'd open the car door and give her a pat. And what dog wouldn't love to chase seagulls?

The bear encounter sticks to me vividly. Ruby would bark like crazy when the doorbell rang. With the bear, though, it seemed she wanted to alert me but not bother the bear (good idea!). It was, for me, it was a profoundly mysterious experience. I always have loved Nature, but I hadn't experienced Nature having a midnight snack in my backyard.

We would see more bears, herons, deer, possums, raccoons, eagles, crabs, banana slugs, and cars stuck in the sand (which pleased me, I must admit).

What a great pal she was! She helped me over my divorce and my father's death. She told me which possible boyfriends were ok and which were not (the goat herder got a hard no - maybe she didn't like scent of goat).

Ruby Tuesday Queen of Mars died in 2004, and my newish husband, whom Ruby adored and played hide and seek with, drove her ashes back to the coast. After getting permission from the house's new owners where she and I had lived, we walked to the beach to scatter her ashes in the dunes where she loved to run. And, as The Universe is my witness, a rainbow appeared at the precise moment when I scattered her ashes. It was closure for me and a full circle. Even now, I miss her and think of her often, sometimes with some tears. She was, as they say, The Dog of My Heart.