A bear broke into my kitchen. Then I watched him die.

This commentary is by Rachel Lee Stoll, an antiquarian bookseller.

There is much conversation right now about bears in Vermont, about their increasing numbers and how and when we hunt them down. I have a dog in this bear fight, because my son and I came home a few weeks ago to find that our house had been visited in our absence by a hungry bear.

The bear — terrifically nimble — opened a window I had not firmly latched, fell into my son’s room, clambered all about the house and found the glory hallelujah that is the kitchen. His paw hit a knob on our electric stove and turned on a burner. A sturdy old teapot took the heat. The bear opened our fridge and, in what I hope were the best damn hours of his life, slashed and spilled and feasted. He came in and out more than once, started taking food outside, to-go bags; why not? The house was, to put it mildly, a mess. At least the bear was gone when we arrived. But he came back the next morning.

I hollered at him, airhorn bleating, old dog barking. I did not want him dead; I wanted him gone. He left, but slowly, so forlornly. And he came back again, unafraid of us. I called the wardens, who were excellent, kind and professional. While they set up a huge bear trap, I saw him coming back yet again, moving in that thick, silent manner, slipping through trees, and I pointed him out and said, “Do what you need to do.” They shot him. I started shaking. I think about that bear every day. He has entered my dreams. I have not cleaned his not-so-big prints off our walls.

I do not want what happened at our house to be used as an argument for shooting more bears out of trees or while asleep in their dens. But there will be more dangerous encounters. Before the bear reached our house, he had been at neighbors’ houses — battering one family’s door and windows while they were inside baking cookies. He was not afraid of people. A few years back, a woman in Winhall was mauled by a bear. I fear we will hear more such stories.

I had a close encounter with a grizzly while hiking in Montana long ago. I have had two brain surgeries and an adrenal crash alone in a car. I know what to fear in life, and, generally speaking, black bears are not high on that list. But that is a far cry from saying they are not dangerous at all, nor that I want a bear in my kitchen, gobbling up the cheese and peanut butter and buttermilk and 17 Clif Bars — though not the shimmering jar of honey left on the counter.

What can we do? What should we not do? I am not against hunting when it is done properly. Hunting can be honorable: an animal living its life wild and free until the moment it is killed. But unlike other states such as Colorado and California, Vermont allows hounding: Many dogs are let loose against a bear that runs up a tree and then, terrified, is shot out of the tree, and often shot again when he falls if he is still alive. I despise bear hounding, as do many I know who are hunters. There is no honor in it. We owe the bears more than that.

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If bear season is extended, we need absolute clarity: Killing denned bears should be clearly prohibited. No fuzzy, vague language. What Vermonter wants a bear shot while sleeping in its den? Who are we? What are we made of?

We do have a problem with too many bears. Everyone in our area who has lived here for decades, as we have, has noticed the uptick. Mother bears leave cubs up trees along our driveway. One cub this summer would sit on a sturdy branch and dangle his legs and chatter on, adorable as all babies are, and I wished he were not there. I told his mother not to trust us so much. Told her I am a bear killer, to no avail. We bark, we holler. I do not want that little bear shot next year. Or going into anyone’s house.

So what do we do besides kill more of them? Resorts and restaurants should use bear-proof garbage containers properly, with serious fines and regulations with teeth. Why can’t resorts keep garbage inside, or build special garbage sheds? What if more Vermonters kept garbage inside?

And we can use common sense. I used to keep our kitchen windows closed all summer. This summer was too hot, and I opened one. It was open the day a bear walked right by, inches away. I’ll try to keep those windows closed all summer. But what are we to do on hot summer nights when more bears start realizing, as it becomes part of their culture, that so much tasty food is inside every house?

We can love bears and still know that their numbers, absurdly good sense of smell, strength and dexterity have become an honest-to-God problem without easy answers.

Rosh Hashana just passed by. I found myself deep in the woods by a stream, with an old piece of Clif Bar in my pocket. Oh, I thought, as the old dog stumbled happily through the cool water, I could do tashlich, the ritual of symbolically tossing our sins into water as the new year begins, a fresh start.

I thought of those I needed to ask forgiveness. Faces swam into view, but then the bear rushed in, his beautiful face taking up every inch of my mind. I tossed tiny bits of the stale bar into the stream, sunshine glinting off the water and the rocks all around, and I asked for his forgiveness, again and again.

I’ll keep walking in their woods, slipping between the trees, searching for beechnuts, calling out with that loud sound that is neither friendly nor alarming, the one that says, I am here, and I know you are too, so let’s be careful, please, mindful of each other.

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