Coyote

At least a few times a week I see him.  Or at least I did until this past May.  From a distance, I’m sure he’s a wolf.  He is that big, bigger than a regular coyote.  His markings are so distinct—he has what looks like a saddle on his back.  He is always watching me.

Seven years ago, when Lhotse was still alive, she stepped on a thorn, and it worked its way into her right front paw.  As a skittish shiba inu, she does not let me get near that paw to help.  The vet sedates her to get it out. It’s already infected.

Lhotse stops limping after the antibiotics kick in and the vet says it is ok to go on walks.  Lhotse always needs a few hours of walking outside and, once her paw is a tiny bit better, she expects her long walks.

On a cold November morning we set out under skies the color of steel.   We walk into the wind towards the foothills, looking for the elk herd I love to photograph.  The cottonwood trees, naked against the light in the east, bend towards us.  Two tiny human silhouettes on top of South Table Mountain are in a permanent lean against the gale.

I smell the elk herd before I see them.  Musky, grassy, earthy, clean.  The smell comforts me.  The smell is primal, and I know I loved them 10,000 years ago too.  My friend Brian says I’m a born tracker, with an eagle eye and a nose like a bloodhound.  Lhotse and I veer off the path into the lumpy rough of the foothills.

I can feel him nearby.  I am lucky when it comes to animals and this morning is no exception.  I turn around and he is about forty yards away, fur rippling in the wind like it would over prairie grass.  He never looks at me.  He stares at Lhotse with her bandaged paw.  He is so beautiful.  There is no fear in his stare.  I step towards him, and he doesn’t move.  What I notice though, is that he never takes his eyes off my dog.

We keep walking and a few minutes later I turn around again.  There he is, the exact same distance away from us, silent on the crunchy dry ground.  The wind and I make the only noise.  I am not scared but I scoop up my 30-pound dog and start to circle back towards the path.  Coyote follows.  I understand he smells Lhotse’s infected paw.  He smells an injured animal.  He smells his coyote opportunity.

So, once I reach the bike path, Lhotse still in my arms, he is a little closer.  Are my eagle eyes playing tricks?  I don’t know but I see his determination and I match it.  I turn to face him, walking backwards, staring.  Lhotse doesn’t seem to notice she’s part of the food chain today.  Near the house he wheels around to trot away.  In another dry field, he pounces on something smaller and less fortunate than the dog in my arms.

These morning walks give me solace in a world where news channels pump out tragedy and fear like a maxed-out steam engine.  These morning walks soothe my anxiety.  These morning walks help me reset when, as my sister Kate calls it, I wake up with spiritual amnesia. Spiritual amnesia happens when I forget completely the comforting notion of God. Someone told me recently, “God is not in the event, God is in the response.”  I know this to be true most of the time, but I need to feel it in my heart, not only know it in my head.

When spiritual amnesia sets in, I go for a long walk.  When spiritual amnesia sets in, I have tools to move through it to the other side.  I can read good news.  Like the recent story of whooping cranes no longer in decline.  Or the other recent story that more sea turtles are nesting in Florida in 2021 than in 2012.  And 2012 was the biggest year for nesting sea turtles in many decades.  Or the many stories of small acts of kindness.  The good news is there if I look for it.

Mom told us coyote medicine is the medicine of the Trickster.  What does coyote teach me?  That I am taking myself too seriously.  That the Universe is going to do something shortly to help me lighten up, whether I want to or not.  That the stories I tell myself, and the assumptions I make, may not be truth.  That I am always in need of a good joke.  Coyote medicine is about hope and playfulness.  I am reminded of coyote medicine every night when they sing to us in the back forty.  I am reminded to pause, to smile, and to be open to unexpected joy.  To be open to the good, even in the midst of so much human tragedy.  It’s out there.

Get Outside

Get outside. You might be lucky enough to see the crescent moon in the east just as the sky lightens.

You might also see the fresh coyote tracks coming out of the ditch, mixed in with bigger tracks, and you might then know the bull elk is nearby.

You might slow your roll and listen for his heavy, halting step snapping a twig or rustling the fallen leaves.

He’s the one outside the herd, scarred from battle, drawn to challenge the bigger bull again and again.

He’s the one who never gives up. He’s the one who is next in line.

You might hope he’s headed for the neighbors’ orchard because you don’t want to surprise a bull elk in early November in the dark.

As you breathe the cold air, you might write a letter to God in your head, and you just might find some solace by watching the growing light as it hits the tops of the cottonwoods like a promise.