The scream you hear is only our naturalist

He stood in my yard … defiant. Defiant in broad daylight! Of course, defiant is a matter of opinion, especially if you consider that I was cowering behind my kitchen window curtain at the time. But he was big … no, huge! Thankfully, his locked-in glare wasn't in my direction which led me to assume that I was of little consequence to him. An assumption! I had nothing more than an assumption and a loose one at that. Still, some chemical or electrical bodily function within me moved my left hand up to the window glass and my index finger started to tap on it. Loudly! (Please note: The rest of my body was still fully behind the curtain.) Perhaps a moment of consideration should have proceeded this "involuntary" tapping. What would result if the beast looked my way? What if it moved toward the sound? What if it charged? What if it transformed? But mostly, what if it ignored the sound? Dramatic buildup notwithstanding, it ignored the sound. Again involuntarily, my same left hand pulled down the shade. After a few indecisively frantic moments, I ever-so-gently pulled back the edge of the shade and peered outside. The beast was staring directly at me. Naturally, releasing the shade gently would have been the most common-sense thing to do, but … Now what? Why it made so much sense to ask my dog to look out our French door window to gage the situation I'll never know. But being the kind and obedient dog she is, she looked out … and she got excited … really excited. But, you know how after many years of being a dog owner you learn to read your dog's body language? Well, I read hers and I am not even sure she saw the beast. What I knew now was she had to pee. …and once this pump is primed, well, she had to pee "real" bad! (And perhaps just by sheer association, the sensation that I did too settled over me.) Now, just to better describe the moment, I probably could have led our dog out the front door to do her business, but the state of my mental capabilities at the time didn't mention that option. (Of course, my wife asked me "why?" later in the day. My response was, "You weren't there, staring death in the eye! There … right in our own backyard!" To which she looked out the kitchen window and said, "I don't see death or a beast. No, wait, is that a chickadee?") But back in the moment … and the beast. Without any canine intel, I felt obligated to peek around the blind again. This time, ever so slowly, I pulled back the blind. And then I froze! The beast had moved closer and it was intently focused on the window I was at … and it was stamping the ground with its giant right leg! Sometime around my mid-40s I somehow lost my ability to produce falsetto vocalizations. But yet, here it was ... back and clear and strong. My scream ripped through the air. The doors of the nearby cabinet shuddered … the glasses within clanked. The dripping faucet not only paused, but the last drop to exit stopped mid-air and vaporized! (Oh, and the dog covered her ears … and I think she peed a little.) Gravity could not have pulled back the blind fast enough to suit me, so I yanked it … hard. As sturdy as it seemed, the whole assembly came crashing to the floor. I screamed again! And then I looked out the window. The beast was only a few feet away from the house, and I was certainly only a few moments away from death. I did the only thing I could. I screamed again! And the beast ... the darn thing jumped. And then it snorted and stamped its foot. And then … and then … it turned and walked away. But would it come back? After explaining the broken blind and the small yellow stain on the carpet and listening to my wife's common sense, I decided to take a very pro-active step. One that would give us a sense of comfort or, at least, a sense of warning. I purchased a series of security cameras, and not the simple kind. No, I got the kind that would connect to my phone and give me alerts. I set them up around my yard, but I emphasized the bike trail that passed along my southern border. Bike trail ... nope, this was a "game" trail, and now apparently it was a "beast'" trail. The cameras were connected and tested. (My dog thought it was fun, I think?) And now it was showtime. The first day went by normally, just a few walkers and a couple of squirrels. At least I was comfortable in the system's functionality and with darkness soon approaching, well, I felt a little bit confident. But just after dark, an alert from the cameras buzzed my phone. I took it out of my pocket, hesitated a moment, and looked at its screen. And then I froze. There on the screen was another beast. This one was different, smaller than the first. It was bipedal and its completely furred body could not hide its apparently powerful build. But there was more, hideously more. Next to it was a young girl … a hostage … a meal for later? I looked away and almost dropped my phone! But when I glanced back, my eyes locked in on what it was carrying. It was a head! A monstrous head. Eyes sunken … faced scarred … neck severed! I could feel that long lost scream building up in my lungs. But just before it shot out of my mouth, my wife asked, "Any trick-or-treaters tonight?" Happy Halloween everyone! Naturally, most of this story is fictional fun, but parts of the daytime beast are true. It was a 10-point, atypical buck with the biggest neck I have ever seen. And it didn't care about me … or leaving. It just cared about staring down the buck that was doing the same on the opposite side of my yard. Please know that fall bucks can be beasts and are best observed from a distance … or behind a kitchen window.