Coyote Ugly

I am a midwestern girl.  I hail from a small town surrounded by miles of farmland, but not too far that you can’t see the next small town five miles up or down the road.  There were no savage animals lurking around except for the guard dogs that resided at every farmhouse, and if the endless cornfields didn’t bring up visions of Children of the Corn, then it was a pretty secure and safe place.

So, when I recently moved to the brush country of south Texas, which you will read about ad nauseum in future posts, I was a bit taken back by the amount of scary wildlife lurking everywhere.  I had been warned about the snake population in the area to the point that I was almost too scared to step off the back porch.  The scorpions and big hairy spiders were also somewhat expected, but weighing at least 150 pounds more, I have overcome my fear and have learned to gain pleasure in smashing them with my shoes.

Coyotes were also nothing new to me.  We had them in Kansas and I could often hear their eerie cries, yips and howls at dusk.  On occasion, they would circle our house either sending the dogs frantic to get outside to chase them, or frantic to get inside to safety.

But after moving to Texas, I didn’t expect the amount of coyotes that use our pastureland as a busy highway system for their comings and goings.

As soon as we moved in and I started hearing their haunting wails, my husband started talking about coyote hunting.  “Darlin’, if we kill a couple of them and hang them on the fence line, the rest of the pack will steer clear of our property.”  This conversation was had on numerous occasions with a few variations, but my non-violence approach to wildlife never allowed me to get my head around the concept of killing these animals…

…Until the coyotes crossed a line.

My morning routine consists of rolling out of bed and letting the dogs outside.  This particular morning was no different except the moment the dogs cleared the back door, I heard the yipping-like bark of a pack of coyotes 50 yards from the house.  It was too late for me get the dogs back in the house because the second the dogs heard the coyotes they were gone.  I did manage to get my 11 month-old Labrador back in the house, so that was one less dog I had to worry about.

I had bigger worries, though.  My husband was out of town so I was going to have to manage this coyote situation by myself.  By myself.

Imagine me…in my pajamas…and oversized green cowboy boots that belong to my daughter.  With bed head, pjs, cowboy boots and a huge, high-powered spot light, I am sure I was quite a sight to see.  A spot light, by the way, that I mocked my husband for buying but was very grateful I had light that could reach the brush line 50 yards from the house.  It was still dark out, although the sky was starting to lighten in the east. 

Over and over I called the dogs names, but I was being ignored.  As my nervousness for their safety intensified, my yelling became louder.  However, the yipping of the coyotes had stopped and the silence was eerie.  The only sound I could hear besides my own voice was the panting of the animals.  Many animals.  In the darkness I could see the reflection of eyes.  Many sets of eyes.

A few times I would see my dogs burst out from the tree line, but closely on their heals were coyotes.  In and out of the brush, one dog would appear only to disappear again.  This went on for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours.  If there had been a way I could have crawled over the wire fence, I would have charged the coyotes to save my dogs.  The logical part of my brain knew this was probably not a good idea, but the emotional part of my brain would have done anything to save my dogs.

After seeing two coyotes with at least another two sets of eyes in hiding, I knew I was outmanned and I had to call in reinforcements.  Running across the yard, for once not worrying about rattlesnakes, I headed for the house to get a gun and my 15 year-old daughter.  I’m not sure what Elliott could have done to help me, but moral support had to count for something.  My husband has an arsenal of guns under our bed, but the only gun I knew had to operate in the house was an old fashioned 6-shooter that was in the hall closet.  Yelling at Elliott to wake up and grabbing the gun from the closet, I headed back out the door.

As I was briefing Elliott on the situation, she called for the dogs one time and up the sidewalk they both ran, all happy, but a bit winded from the experience.  I stood in shock as they both wagged their tails and circled my legs for a scratch.  I was speechless.  I was just screaming at the top of my lungs willing to go into battle with an unknown number of wild animals and here they were…excited, happy, and none the worse for wear.

Although I was relieved my dogs were safe, the adrenaline pumping through my body would take awhile before it dissipated, leaving me to forget the idea of going back to bed.  Rather, I made coffee and sat out on the porch, nursing my sore throat.  Before this incident, I didn’t think I had it in me to pick up a gun and shoot another living being, but now I knew that I could shoot and kill a coyote if it meant the safety of my family.

Since that harrowing day, I have been rattled at the sound of coyotes.  I’ve kept the dogs in the house from sundown to sunup.  They aren’t very happy, but I know they are safe.  My husband will be home this weekend and I know he has rounded up our neighbors to come out in the predawn hours for a coyote hunt.

I’m not really keen on the idea of animals being killed, but if it means that a zone of safety is established around the compound with a sign for the coyotes that says, DO NOT ENTER, then I can get my head around the idea.  And since I need to feel safe in my home even if my husband is gone, maybe I need to learn how to operate at least some of the guns that are kept under my bed.