Forest Dump

Stepping Out With My Beasties
For some time, my wife has sought a nickname for our manor and environment. My uncle had his "Red House." Heathcliff had "Wuthering Heights." For the Durretts, I'm split between "Cold Sore Mountain" or "Forest Dump."

The latter is gaining momentum. Here's why.

Many wildlife visitors appear outside the ramshackle cabin where we reside. Deer and bunnies are common. Hooray.

The snakes and bears are too close for comfort. We're wary of such spine-chilling neighbors indeed.

Raccoons, opossums, frogs, turkeys, moles, peacocks, turtles, hoot owls, hummingbirds, and hawks are a few of the guests to drop in to partake of our homespun hospitality, creature comforts, casual dining, reasonable rates, and ample free parking. Tuesday is Ladies Night.

Donna likes to believe the animals find her warm "WELCOME" sign inviting. I humor her naiveté, knowing full well it's the blinking "KARAOKE NOT SPOKEN HERE" neons above the feeders that bring 'em in.

We wonder about which species will materialize next, fingers crossed because we haven't been able to mark off Sasquatch or undocumented yetis on our Critter Lotto game cards.

I traipsed into the yard, the other week, to scout for animal imprints. Abruptly, I stopped in my tracks. It was worse than I ever could have conceived. We'd had a nightmare caller. Unspeakable horror was afoot.

The Abominable Yellow Snowman.

Continued: Bear Scare
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