So the other night my friend Jane* was sitting at home in the kitchen about ten miles from here enjoying a small dinner, when she heard a Noise at the window a couple of feet away and, looking out, spotted a triangular tan shape floating in the dark. The shape, she immediately knew, was the snout of a bear going after the bird feeder attached to the windowsill.
"I was basically a fish in a bowl," she said, so she reached over and turned off the light, which allowed her to see the bear finish ripping the feeder violently off the windowsill (just a few feet away) and wander off toward the garage, suet in hand.
So she's telling us this on a Sunday night. And frankly, Sundays, who the hell needs it? Because I'm not sleeping on a Sunday anyway, let's be frank, because of all the imaginary bears and thieves and bigfoots prowling around outside, not to mention REAL ones. And Jane*'s going to be fine, because she's from Minnesota** and they used to coax bears into the house in winter for warmth.
Can we be frank? Sundays are the worst.
*Real name, but doesn't it sound generic?
**Wisconsin's name changed to preserve anonymity