The Song Dogs of Fall

You’ve probably been hearing them too; coyotes have been doing their evening yipping all around (and in) town over the last couple weeks. Several homeys have asked about the little wild dogs and the pitch and volume of their yips, yaps, barks and howls. (And, no, I’m not sure that it is that unusual; we’ve heard it in other early falls.) My year-and-a-half-old grandson Jonas really got me thinking about them. We were on the back deck, wandering toward the workshop, when a family started yapping in the field north of us. I said, “Those are coyotes. A lot of people call them tricksters.” Jonas instantly announced “Doggy!” and joined the yapping fracas – cracking himself up in the process.

Watching him, I remembered again how I laughed at the young pups playing on our Colorado foothills driveway a few decades back. And those hours I spent watching milk-laden females turning rocks for grubs and digging for rodents to feed their babies – all the while making quiet yipping sounds.

Somehow it is never surprising when homeys suddenly want to talk about our small wild “song dogs.” How often do we run into someone smiling wistfully as he or she talks about watching young and old tricksters chase gophers and mice, or tip-toe around deer out on some patch of Paradise. “I love watching them play,” an Upper County friend once said, “and I just wanna go help ‘em dig when they go after those %$!?* gophers in my garden…”

I guess I enjoy coyotes. A couple decade ago, on the Roslyn Cemetery-Ronald Road, I set up my spotting scope, and watched three of them dancing for field mice. Oblivious to my presence, each caught at least one mouse with that amazing and funny stalk. First, the little dog would freeze, ears cocked toward the ground. It would tip-toe a few inches, leap stiff-legged into the air, pin its prey to the ground, snatch it and toss it overhead, then catch it. There seemed such satisfaction as it then crunched its fresh entree. Years later, I still have that scene of seeming joy in my mind.

So, what is it about coyote? What is it that stirs us so deeply? And whose story is more amazing?

Ancient stories and traditions weave coyote into the whole tapestry of human history. Coyote, once fully human and paving the way for the rest of us, figures in virtually all Native cultures. His name (the one we use anyhow) comes from the Aztec “coyotl,” or “barking dog.” To the Yakamas, he is “Spilyi.”

In most Native American traditions, coyote is the trickster. His medicine is almost guaranteed to make us laugh, even as we are made the fool. In these traditions, he challenges us to learn, to grow, as he exemplifies our good and bad qualities – even in our Euro-American way of seeing.

Since 1915, in the United States, bounties have been paid on something over 2,000,000 coyotes.  Several states still have coyote bounties on the books, with Utah, Minnesota, Virginia and Texas among those recently active. We have shot, poisoned, buried, drowned, blown up and trapped him. Yet his numbers and range have grown; find him in New York City’s Central Park, in the alleys of Los Angeles, and from North Dakota to the fence line between us and Mexico.

In wildlife communities, there are specialists and generalists. Coyote is the quintessential generalist, surviving (thriving, really) virtually anywhere. He makes his home in every habitat type in our state: eating mice and snowshoe hares in the mountains; mice and birds in the marshes of the Columbia Basin; jackrabbits and mice in the sage and ag lands; and trash, cats or small dogs, as available. At various times and places, fruit, berries, melons, tomatoes and carrots are eaten. An opportunist, coyote will eat almost anything.

Coyote is intelligent. While generally hunting alone, he and his kin are masters of teamwork. A “tag‑team” technique of chasing antelope and jackrabbits has been observed, and it is suspected that he may, under some conditions, hunt deer this way. He often trails along with elk as they paw the snow to get to the grass underneath. (Apparently the elk expose‑‑or startle‑‑ enough mice for coyote to make a living some days.) Coyote is clever enough to kill a porcupine without injury, and has learned the art of eating the fruit of the prickly pear cactus. Animal behaviorists use fondness for play as a measure of animal intelligence, and coyotes have been widely observed playing with each other as well as other birds and animals.

Is it any wonder that coyote may live for a decade or more? And how can we wonder that Native peoples believed that coyote would be walking long after wolf and grizzly were gone? Coyote may yet inherit the earth.

In keeping with the guidelines of the Reecer Creek Rod, Gun, Working Dog & Outdoor Think Tank Benevolent Association Science Education Committee, I am duty-bound to tell you that coyote may reach 40 pounds and 26 inches at the shoulder, and live for 10 years in the wild. Coyote has superb senses: ears to match most any animal; a nose almost as good as a bloodhound; and excellent eyesight. Mostly nocturnal, he is often seen in full daylight. His scientific name is Canis latrans. He is our song dog.