The Huz (short for husband) was making his annual attempt to keep winter outside where it belongs. He was clearing leaves, putting away garden tools, checking the hoses, and installing hanging storm windows. Yes, hanging storm windows. We’re so old-fashioned we might as well be living in a cave, except that cavemen probably had the good sense to live somewhere warm. We, on the other hand, have a house that requires seasonal construction projects just to keep the wind from whistling through it.

The Huz was busy with his list of chores when he spotted a large black bear. No cubs, just one big, black, furry fellow who apparently had decided to drop by for a look around. Maybe he was checking whether we’d left anything edible outside. Maybe he was inspecting the property for the winter. Whatever his reason, he was considerably larger than anything on The Huz’s to-do list.

Now, if you encounter a black bear, there are certain things you’re supposed to do. Stay calm. Don’t run. Don’t climb a tree. Give the bear plenty of room and a clear escape route. Speak calmly, make yourself look large (how you do both of those at once is a mystery to me), and back away slowly while keeping an eye on the animal. If the bear follows or approaches, stand your ground. If it attacks, fight back. How? I don't know. And whatever you do, don't approach it for a photograph or try to pet it.

The Huz, apparently, had missed that particular wildlife seminar. He turned and ran into the garden, which is surrounded by a rickety fence he’d been planning to fix before winter. Naturally, he hadn’t gotten around to it. The fence was less a barrier than a suggestion, but at least it was there to provide a little psychological support. For The Huz, that is. I doubt the bear was impressed.

Black bears are common throughout the Northeast, including the Catskills, where we live. They’re generally shy animals and would rather avoid people, but they’re opportunists when it comes to food. In autumn, they go into overdrive, eating as much as they can to build up fat reserves for winter. Berries, nuts, acorns, insects, and anything else they can find are all on the menu. Unfortunately, so are unsecured garbage cans, bird feeders, pet food, and whatever else humans leave lying around. We leave no food out, although there were a few raspberries on the vine.

Hibernation varies with the weather, food availability, and the individual bear. Here in the Northeast, many settle into their winter dens in late fall, often around November or December. They may emerge earlier than expected if conditions allow, and pregnant females typically give birth during the winter denning period.

So, what was this bear doing out and about at this time of year? Probably squeezing in some last-minute shopping. He might have been looking for one more meal before settling down for a long winter’s nap. Perhaps he'd heard that the local restaurants were closing for the season and wanted to check the neighborhood before the snow arrived. I can only imagine his disappointment when he found a man installing storm windows instead of a buffet.

The Huz eventually came into the house, looking all nervous-like. He announced that he’d been seeing bear poop around the property, so no wonder a bear had appeared.

“It’s called scat,” I informed him.

He looked at me. “What’s called scat?”

“Bear poop is called scat.”

He considered this for a moment. “Sounds jazzy,” replied The Huz. It took a moment, but I got it.

And there it was. In the middle of a potential wildlife encounter, we’d discovered a new musical genre. Forget bebop, swing, and cool jazz. Around here, we have scat, performed live in the backyard with a large black bear as the guest artist and The Huz on percussion, provided by the frantic rattling of a rickety garden fence.

I’m thinking we should record an album. We could call it Bear Necessities, although Disney might have something to say about that. The Huz could handle the storm windows while I provide vocals, and if the bear returns, we’ll consider it a standing engagement. Winter is coming, the storm windows are hanging, and the fence is still waiting for its repair. But at least we have something to talk about over dinner.

And if anyone asks what kind of music we like around here, we can truthfully say we’re into scat.

It sounds jazzy.