Halloween came a bit early to the Konopka household

It’s just two days before Halloween when a crazed, hairy intruder appears at my door – and he doesn’t want candy.

Minutes before, I’m parked in my living room La-Z-Boy after a brain-eating workday. Suddenly, in the darkness beyond my French doors I see pickets from my backyard fence leaping into the air like flying fish.

Thinking it’s the wind, I scramble outside shouting obscenities. However, there’s no air movement.

Then, through the wrecked gate, I spot something within. It’s a wobbling, hairy profile on my floodlit deck. The flat tail says it’s a beaver – a big, big beaver.

I’m stunned. Where did he come from?

The nearest water is at least a quarter mile away. Regardless, I just want this enormous hairball gone before he damages something else.

About that time, Ali, my wife, comes out and beats some pans together. That seems to work. The lumbering herbivore meanders back through the gate but isn’t in much of a hurry to go any farther. He’s as intransigent as a Democrat demanding a tax increase.

With two dogs in the house going Rin Tin Tin over his scent, that’s a problem. Thus, I try to scare the creature away with loud, ferocious profanity. He’s not impressed. Instead, he lunges at me, hissing like a laryngitic tomcat.

While I’m jumping behind the French door, Ali pokes him with one of the fence pickets. He grabs the picket with enough ferocity to send her inside.

By this time, I’m thinking rabies. My .357 magnum will solve that problem. But wait.

Any round fired might continue through Hairy’s body and ricochet into a neighbor’s house. I could be arrested for discharging a weapon in a residential area – or could I? For several minutes, I dither like Obama on Afghanistan.

Finally, I opt for the old standby. I muster a matter-of-fact voice and call the Hudson police dispatcher, requesting the animal control officer. Not only is she off duty, but Animal Control deals only with domesticated animals.

OK, so Ali calls Fish and Game. No dice; it’s closed. My .357 magnum is the only option left.

However, while I go check on Hairy, Ali calls the police dispatcher back. She makes no attempt to cultivate an I’ve-got-it-under-control voice. The dispatcher sends out a unit.

In the meantime, I’m observing Hairy through the French door. He looks as though he wants to come inside. He’s sitting squirrel-like on his haunches under the floodlight, staring back at me.

For the first time, I notice his eyes. They resemble little puddles of black liquid resting on a landscape of satin fur. There’s despair in his gaze.

What event brought Hairy to this circumstance? An infected coyote? A fellow beaver? Rabies-infected tree bark?

I now recognize I’d have a tough time killing such a magnificent animal. As he repositions his head, I’m struck by behavioral similarities to my dogs. His sitting posture is not unlike that of Circe or Mozart when they want a treat.

Does Hairy want something? Maybe sanctuary from a predator? Shelter from neighborhood gunfire?

Then, I realize I’m projecting domesticated behavior onto a rabid wild animal.

Yet, the absence of salivation around his mouth gives me doubts about whether he’s rabid. Ali sprays him with the garden hose to make him feel unwelcome. Instead of fearing the water, as rabid animals do, he opens his mouth toward the spray. Ali gives up.

Just about that time, Officers Adam Lischinsky and Kevin Ducie arrive. Their crisp uniforms, military haircuts, and spit-shined boots reflect high standards. That’s comforting.

They size up the situation, but they’re as perplexed as I am. Although Hairy is behaving queerly, other symptoms of rabies are missing. They don’t want to destroy him if they don’t have to.

They call their shift supervisor, Sgt. Mike Gosselin. He arrives about the same time as Officer Al Marcotte, whom I learn has wildlife experience.

He tells us beavers don’t normally wander more than 12 feet from their ponds. He also confirms Hairy is rabid.

Now the problem is to get Hairy where the officers can safely end his suffering.

One of them uses my snow rake to push Hairy away from the French doors. The furious animal attacks the rake. His enraged snarls echo in the yard like a 1950s werewolf movie.

Nevertheless, the police prevail. They tell us to move away from the windows. I hear a weapon discharge. Several seconds pass. Then the deafening crack of another shot resounds. When I get to peer out the window again, Hairy is a lifeless mountain of fur. His painful existence is ended.

Afterward, I wonder to whom this normally shy animal might have passed his hydrophobic infection had the police not stopped him – my dogs? One of my neighbors? A trick-or-treating child two days hence? Thanks to Hudson’s finest, it’s moot speculation.

However, the threat doesn’t end with Hairy’s death. Logic dictates other animals infected like him or by him are certain to be wandering Hudson’s wildwood. So then, who among us will next be visited by a crazed, hairy intruder?

Joe Konopka, of Hudson, is a freelance columnist. His column appears on the second Sunday of every month. E-mail him at stonesoldier@live.com.