“Where do the ducks go in the winter?” was an oft-asked question of Holden Caulfield, J.D. Salinger’s main character in “Catcher in the Rye.”

Well, I don’t care about the ducks.

I care about the bears.

And I don’t care where they go — I just want the late-night prowlers and mischief makers gone!

Not off the planet, or anything as extreme as that, I just want them out of our backyard.

At least until spring.

That would be a welcome Christmas present this year.

Years ago, my husband and I started putting bird feeders in our backyard — and were amazed to see how many different varieties of birds were actually living in our neighborhood.

We’d see the orange-breasted robins, who nested in area shrubs, and little sparrows in our forsythia. We’d also see a flash of red as a cardinal swooped and bobbed through the air crossing the yard.

I think we hoped to lure those elusive cardinals when we hung our first copper-clad feeder, which was more decorative than functional.

Squirrels were the first invaders. No matter where or how we placed the feeder, the squirrels managed to reach it.

Those of you who have battled with a greedy squirrel know how much one can eat when you’re away at work.

An empty feeder was the norm.

Soon, that squirrel brought all of its kin to the all-you-can-eat buffet in our yard, scaring away all of the birds we wanted to attract.

Bears weren’t even on our radar, though we have had our garbage bags plundered and scattered from time to time.

After trying numerous feeders claiming to be squirrel proof — we hit on a truly squirrel-proof feeder. It wasn’t cheap, but it worked.

The cardinals came often — a male and female, which nested in the neighbor’s pine tree, we soon learned.

So many others, too, — house finches, purple finches, nuthatches, chickadees, tufted titmice, downy woodpeckers, gray catbirds, juncos, song sparrows.

Larger birds, such as blue jays and mourning doves, were content with spillage on the ground — along with the squirrels, who gave up on raiding the feeders.

It was quite a show.

I even started hanging a small feeder with thistle just for the goldfinches, which I would have never believed we had in the area until I saw them in droves on that clothes line feeder.

Then, the bear or bears came.

They pulled down and mangled the solid metal arms/holders that we suspended the squirrel-proof feeder from.

That feeder was not bear proof, but survived the initial attacks. My husband got replacement parts and fixed the feeder.

But after the second or third attack, I knew the bear was getting smarter each time. He or she knew the feeders’ weaknesses.

This bear even knew how to open a thistle feeder without pulling down our clothes line. The top half remained secured on the flimsy line — the bottom and all of the seed was on the ground.

The bear also sliced a nylon thistle feeder clean in half with a claw I don’t even want to see in person.

I’d had enough. I refused to put out feeders any more. Why? So, I could watch the bear get smarter and the inevitable destruction?

My husband wasn’t deterred as easily and tried a tall, metal pipe driven deep into the earth and too tall for a bear to easily reach the top.

Pole snapped like a twig. Feeder downed and battle scarred. “No more,” I said.

But recently, a friend gave us a sturdy, wooden feeder mounted on a thick metal pipe that she no longer wanted.

We missed the birds and decided to try again.

Our cardinals returned, as did so many other small birds — landing on the perches and tossing almost as much seed to the ground as they ate as they jockeyed around for position.

It was fun to watch, but it didn’t last.

The bear returned, too. We found the wooden feeder down on the ground — empty but undamaged. A new shepherd’s hook was also down, but twisted and robbed of its suet.

We pulled the feeders entirely two months ago. We’re now waiting for winter to return and the bears to go away.

I’m not sure where they go, just like Salinger’s character, Holden, didn’t know where ducks went in the winter.

But I really want them to go there. Now.