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As I get high on a bottle of rye, the coyote gets drunk on the moon
The cowboy's a conundrum, a contradiction in this age
He says he's doing fine on the poverty line with a workin' cowboy's wage
The whiskey bottle costs 32 bucks, the big prairie moon is free
So, who is a dumber son-of-a-bitch, the little coyote or me?
Who is a dumber son-of-a-bitch, the little coyote or me?
- "The Coyote and the Cowboy" by Colter Wall
August 1998
You are now in your second year of life, but you still live with your mother and father. You’ve always been less assertive than your siblings, always more likely to bare your teeth for the sake of the pups than for your own benefit. It’s made you a good nursemaid to this year’s litter and mother and father are happy to have you around. You are a pack of seven - mother, father, yourself, and the four pups from this spring’s litter, now in the awkward phase of gangly limbs and overlarge ears. There’s still enough of the pup left in you that you enjoy playing with them, even when they try to overwhelm you, and mother and father are grateful for another to keep the pups occupied.
You don’t usually venture into any of the spaces filled with men and unnatural moonlight, and you know the beasts with the two big glowing moons in their roaring faces are dangerous. Just last spring, one took your sibling that didn’t cross the unyielding dark ground fast enough. But the beast you come across tonight is stilled, and is only accompanied by a single man. The beast’s moons have been darkened, a strange ticking emitting from its mouth as it sits in wait with the man.
The man is brazenly perched on top of his beast’s strange snout. Smoke curls into the night air on some of the man’s exhales. The pups at your back shy nervously away at the thought of fire burning inside a man, but you see the burning thing is actually in the man’s paw. Your fear is the healthy wariness of men, nothing so deep-rooted and powerful as the fear of fire.
The smell of the thing the man holds is what drew your pack to him. It’s overwhelming to your sensitive nose, but new and novel, too. You’ve never met a skunk before, but mother and father have. This smells a bit like one, they say, and they express the need for caution through lowered heads and back-tilted ears. But you’re curious more than you are afraid, and you feel braver still when the man crushes the life out of the burning thing against the beast’s cold body. You start to approach, slunk low in the shadows.
The smell lingers in the air. You freeze in place as the man slides to the ground. He opens the beast’s shell and a smaller moon - a star, perhaps? - glows on the inside of the strange creature. He rummages around, muttering something in his strange human tongue, then emerges with a long thing filled with smells. Your ears perk up, your nose twitching, and you take a few eager steps forward. There is only one of this man, and your pack is three adults strong. If you are close enough and patient, you may be able to steal the food-thing and run before the man notices.
Mother slinks alongside you, father hanging back with the pups. You keep yourselves in the shadow of the silent beast’s flank. The man stretches, extending his pale, mostly-hairless arms over his head. His blunt claws scratch his belly and he steps sideways, tucking himself against the other side of the beast’s opened shell. There’s a curious, sharp buzzing sound like the wings of an insect, and then the smell of urine splashing the dirt.
The man left the prized food-thing unguarded within the beast.
This moment is all you need. You lunge forward and grab the food-thing in your jaws. The wash of smells so close, the knowledge of precious energy within your grasp, has you salivating. But you are a good and loyal member of your pack and you bite down only hard enough to keep hold, then turn back towards father and the pups.
“Hey!” You don’t speak the language of men, but you understand the sharp bark of the man’s tone - he is a snarling fellow trying to reclaim his dinner. "You fuckin' kiddin' me? Shit - " There's a rustling as the man fumbles, then that strange buzzing sound again. You coil your legs beneath you, prepared to leap into a run, and the man dives on you.
You don't need to think. Instinct kicks in and you scream beneath the man's weight. The food-thing falls from your mouth and the man's dexterous paw closes in the scruff at your neck. You struggle beneath him, terrified, overwhelmed with the skunk-smell and the biting, unnatural scents humans cloak themselves in. His grip on you tightens and you twist beneath him, risking the exposure of your belly so that you can lash out with your teeth and claws. You taste his blood, feel it wet your claws, and he releases you instantly.
"God damn it! What the fuck?"
Your feet are moving, propelling you forward, before they've really made proper contact with the ground. Dust clings to your fur. You grab the food-thing and run, following mother's scent. You find your pack tucked away safely in the trees. The moonlight is filtering weakly through the branches overhead, but you don't need it to see. Your nose is full of the smells of your family and your prize. You drop it, wagging your tail. Mother and father step forward, congratulating you with wags of their own. They take the first bites, piercing the food-thing's thin skin with their teeth, and you wait patiently, knowing you'll be next, proud of your successful thievery.
Your belly isn't full after the meal, but it's content. You, mother, and father leave the pups to finish what remains and, together, tilt back your heads to scream at the moon. Somewhere in the near distance, the man interprets your sounds as mockery, but all you feel is joy.
