Since I moved last August to Boulder, Colorado (temporarily), I’ve been a wee bit concerned about the mountain lions that occasionally pass through my Foothills neighborhood. (Yes, I know, I’m on their turf.)
My attitude has veered between healthy respect, outright fear, and typical, cartoonish New York bravado (who you looking at?).
My four year old son has somehow picked up only on the fear, so I can never get him to take out the garbage on his own yet. (Yeah, right, I don’t let him get more than a foot away from me–ever.)
Anyway, turns out that I was worried about the wrong animal species. The poor little guy got bit by one of his classmates in preschool yesterday. The little bugger who bit him broke the skin and left teeth marks too.
So I guess that should be the next metric that makes its way into a mountain lion story: how many preschoolers get bit every year by one of their buds, compared to how many get bit by a mountain lion.
Of course, when I get home after dark, I still make a beeline from the driveway to the front door. Can’t take any chances.