Wild Music
by Brenda McBride of Enumclaw, WA
Last night, at 12:30, I woke up to a low, growling woof from our young Newfoundland, Tillie. I got up to see what was bothering her and found her pacing nervously in the living room. I couldn’t see or hear anything, but every couple of seconds, she would bark quietly and her whole body was tense and trembling. I thought she might need to go outside, so I opened the back door and stepped out on the porch with her.
The night was cold and calm. Hardly a breeze stirred the air. There was enough moonlight to illuminate the drifting fog that was settling in the pastures around us. A ghostly night. And Tillie thought so too because she wouldn’t leave the back steps. Her rigid body was poised in listening and then I heard too. The swirling, rising and falling yips and cries of a pack of coyotes.
Anyone who lives in the country, or even at the edge of cities, has heard this wild, eerie, canine song of family, longing, hunting and joy. But Tillie, being only ten months old, hadn’t heard them before. She was frightened, yet intensely interested in what they had to say. We listened for a while and then I coaxed her out to the barn to check on the animals out there. The coyotes were silent then. They have the habit of stopping their chorus as completely and suddenly as they start. I started singing my own song, loudly, hoping not to meet any of them between the house and the barn. We didn’t and the rest of the night was silent.
We don’t see coyotes very often, yet they are living all around us. The ones that I have seen look like small gray or tan German Shepherds. They mind their own business, intent on their own affairs. Besides being awakened by their midnight chorus practices, we are affected by them when our cats go missing or our chickens, or, in our case, a big, fat turkey, almost Thanksgiving sized, who had the unfortunate habit of roosting at night, on the fence of his pen. One night he was snatched right out of his slumber and in the morning, all that was left was a few white feathers, blowing across the yard.
“That’s it!” the young males of our family exclaimed, “We can’t have coyotes making off with our turkeys and chickens. It’s time to get them!” They decked themselves out in their hunting gear and rifles and hung around the barn for a few nights. They even traipsed around in the woods behind us, looking for signs of the marauders. But, they never saw the coyotes and quickly lost interest and put the rifles away. I regretted the loss of that turkey and although I am not a hunter, I felt ambivalent about “The Great Coyote Hunt.” Shortly after that, I was at a house that was situated on a green belt within the limits of a small city. I was alone, looking out the window into their back yard and a small movement caught my attention. A very young coyote pup had wandered into the yard. He was golden tan and almost invisible in the foliage. He sat down in the stippled shade for a few long minutes, his ears twitching at little sounds. He was so quiet and alert and so perfectly suited to his environment. I was enchanted. I was glad then that no coyotes had been killed on or farm. That turkey had been destined for someone’s supper anyway. I am also glad that no other turkeys, hens, geese or cats have been killed here either. The coyotes haven’t pushed their luck.
I saw a gray coyote cross our pasture one morning and there was a family of them singing behind the barn one night. On warm summer evenings, right before dark, I have seen a few of them hunting in freshly mowed fields, hunting mice and rabbits that have been exposed. Near just such a field this fall, I found a young coyote, dead in a ditch. He had been hit by a car. I looked at him carefully, not having had an opportunity to see one so close before. I admired his healthy cream-colored coat, his slim legs and delicate muzzle. As the days passed, his body disappeared, bit by bit. Soon there was just a patch of fur, and then, nothing. Now quick water runs over the spot where his body was, taking with it the last of his essence, and I imagine, his song.
There is not much that is wild around us anymore. We are uncomfortable with black bears nosing around our children’s swing sets in the backyard. And who wants mice in the cupboards and spiders under the beds? This summer, wasps tried five times to build a nest under the awning on the back porch. We removed them, since it wasn’t convenient for us to have them whizzing by our ears as we went in and out. Yet we have learned to live with what nature has to offer on our farm. We don’t get uptight about rambling skunks, bats fluttering around our heads, and pigeons in the loft. Or coyotes. We try to live together in peace.
Soon, Tillie will be an older and wiser dog. She will understand and not be unnerved by their wild minstrelsy drifting from the folded hills and woods around our farm. Our border collies just shrug their shoulders at their serenades as if to say, “Well, you know our cousins…they do like to party!” As for me, I think it is a small miracle, that with the lights and noise of cities, inching closer on every side, I can still walk outside into a dark barnyard and in perfect silence, be treated to that wild music.
