Coyotes

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

When I was a kid, growing up in the Catskill Mountains, reading Zane Grey and watching TV westerns, I thought of coyotes as wild and elusive creatures. I viewed them as skittish, flitting at twilight from rock to rock, shadow to shadow.

 

Confession: I also thought of them as ordering an assortment of Acme products in the endless pursuit of a roadrunner. But let’s put that aside.

 

Years passed, I lived in Arizona, and often spotted them. More often I heard them. And heard stories about them. I began to think of them as clever, crafty, opportunistic, and, okay, even sneaky.

 

But I never thought of them as panhandlers, hanging out beside a road, hoping for a handout.

And then, back in November, I saw this guy beside a looping dirt road in the Ridgefield Wildlife Refuge. He sat as if on command, wearing a hopeful expression like a dog begging for a biscuit or perhaps hoping to be adopted.

 

We joked that if we opened the car door the coyote would hop in. But we knew better than to do that or to offer the crumbs that accumulate on the floor mat.

 

But apparently, he and his buddies cadged a few goodies from others. On our next visit we noted signs warning visitors not to feed coyotes.

 

I revised my thoughts again. Forget elusive. Forget skittish. And forget sneaky. But clever and crafty? Sure. Opportunistic? You bet.

 

And why not? If I had a choice between chasing a mouse in a muddy field and sitting in the grass waiting for a snack to be delivered, I wouldn’t go for the mouse.