Stop living in my porch light.
You scare the befuckus out of me whenever I open my door to go outside and you fly away in top, hyper-speedy panic mode. And, conversely, whenever I open the door to go outside, I frighten you into said top, hyper-speedy panic mode flight.
It's just not working out for either of us.
You may stay until you find a new porch light. Preferably at the house of a shut-in or on a seldom-used back porch. I must ask, however, that, in your remaining time here at my house, you refrain from pooping right in the doorway, there. M'k? I am being more than fair. I have never pooped where you step.
Best of luck to you.
T