Coyote apocalypse

“In wildness is the preservation of the world,” — Henry David Thoreau, American naturalist, essayist, poet and philosopher (1817-1862)

Things are getting a little wild in my neighborhood. Hardly a day goes by when we don’t hear about a coyote sighting or are actually surprised by a coyote. And as much as most of us appreciate both wilderness (a common misquoting of Thoreau) and wildness (as in nature), nobody really wants to see a coyote.

You could make the case for the coyote being the national animal — they are both native to North America and capable of living in both wilderness and cities. They’re smart. Those in the Chicago area reportedly know how to read traffic signals when crossing streets. They’re also apparently big sports fans or at least fans of the food other sports fans leave behind.

A somewhat blurry coyote on the move is my neighborhood in 2023.

My city in California also offers a happy habitat with abundant parks connected by greenbelts with bushes to sleep behind, homeowners who still let their cats out, a thriving population of rabbits to feast on, and your friendly misguided homeowners who set food out for birds, ducks, stray cats and (oh, oh) coyotes.

Most coyote sightings are benign. I had one trot past me while I was walking my coyote-sized dog up a greenbelt one recent late afternoon. I watched it run past (we were separated by a bank of bougainvillea) and reined in my dog, who must have been distracted in her thorough examination of some other scent because she didn’t start to react until it was past us. I started walking backwards and noticed the coyote had stopped about 30 yards away, nonchalantly sitting under a tree and gazing at us. If there had been a thought bubble above its head, I think it would either have said “ha, ha” or “how big is that dog and is it edible?” We all went our separate ways.

Sadly not all encounters end so easily. One of my friends was driving out of her subdivision when she spotted a coyote trotting down the street with a cat in its mouth. She texted me with the account. “I honked and honked and honked my car and pulled over, and it dropped the cat. A neighbor came running out and chased it away, and then he called the son of the cat owner, an older woman … meanwhile the damn coyote kept trying to come back and finish the job. Fortunately I had those geezer walking sticks in my trunk so I was the crazy lady on the corner, waving and stomping at a coyote while the guy watched for the old lady and made sure she didn’t come out and see her poor cat. Then someone else stopped and stood guard over the cat and this guy and I watched for the coyote. At some point he [the guy not the coyote] grabbed a pitchfork, too. The son showed up pretty quickly and raced off to the ER vet … All the rest of us stood there teary-eyed. At least the older woman didn’t have to find parts of her kitty all over the driveway.”

I know it’s a sad story (the cat didn’t survive), but I have to admit the thought of people waving poles and pitchforks at a coyote is probably a good omen in case there’s a zombie apocalypse next.

Cat-eating coyotes aside, I’m glad there’s still a little wildness left in my part of the world. According to Wilderness Connect, my neighborhood is exactly what Thoreau meant. “Those not from New England are often taken aback when they realize that Thoreau's wild places were not akin to Muir's or Abbey's Yosemite and Arches, but instead were his neighbor's apple orchards and berry patches. Thoreau's talents for finding and highlighting wildness in both the natural world and as a right for humanity were indeed revolutionary.”

Personally, I’m willing to give coyotes the right to co-exist as long as they don’t eat pets. And I certainly want to keep all rights when it comes to preserving both wildness and wilderness.