Last night I, the sole human resident of Cox Park, woke to a noise from my outdoor kitchen.
Either the heifers have gotten in there again, or it is another bear, I thought. I had awakened to a bear in the kitchen a few nights ago, scaring it away before it got any food.
I jumped out of bed, pulled on my boots, grabbed a flashlight and opened the cabin door. Outside I found a porcupine on the shelf under the kitchen counter, nibbling on something, which turned out to be a bar of pumice soap. I suppose it cleaned him out. Unlike the bear a few days ago, the porcupine did not seem afraid and refused to leave despite my exhortations to do so.
Now, this happened to occur while my beautiful Jenny was visiting, and in a vain attempt to impress my lady with chivalrous heroics, I had run out into the forty-degree night in just my boots, and I confess I did not wish to be in any way touched by a porcupine in such a state. I poked it with a stick but it just stayed there. Finally I flipped over the tray of silverware that the spiny intruder had perched on, whereupon it fell to the ground and slowly swaggered off into the dark woods.
I pulled off my boots and crawled back into bed, expecting Jenny to thank me for so gallantly saving her from the ferocious wild animal outside. She was still asleep. In the morning she said she thought she had heard me doing dishes.