I wonder if he’s the same coyote who woke us up at 3 AM.

This picture was taken one morning last winter, after I’d spotted a coyote asleep in the woods very close to the dining room window.  When I rapped on the glass, he stood up and stretched.  Relieved himself.  Sleepily looked around.  Then staggered four feet and climbed up on the boulder as if it was a pillow-topped Serta.

Banjo Man opened the window and hollered at him, but this coyote was determined to ignore us.  He didn’t look well.

Two hours passed, while I googled “sick coyote” online.  According to my research, banging pots and pans was the best way to frighten a coyote.  If the noise didn’t make him leave, then I’d have to call the wildlife folks and ask for help.  Coyotes are supposed to be afraid of humans; if they’re not, then they can be dangerous or have rabies or be stalking your Shih Tzu (you can learn so much scary stuff on the internet).

Banjo Man half-heartedly banged a couple of pots together from the safety of an open window, but our coyote visitor wasn’t impressed.  Neither was I.  Time was a-wastin’ and I really, really wanted to get on with the day, so I strode outside on the deck and banged metal like a chef on meth.  I yelled, too.

He lifted his head, turned and gave me an insolent look.  Then he scrambled down from the rock and trotted off into the woods.  Thank goodness.

Eastern coyotes are bigger than the ones you see out west.  They mated with Canadian wolves long ago and can weigh 40-55 pounds. They’re tall, with spindly legs, and look like German Shepherds.  I once had to stop the car to avoid hitting three of them milling around like thugs in the middle of the road.   I had to nudge one out of the way with the front fender, and even then they acted as if it was no big deal.

We’re accustomed to hearing them howling and yipping at night, when they have those awful, “Hurray, we killed something!!” parties in the woods. But last night’s lone, loud, screaming, bone-chilling howls came from one coyote.  A coyote who was not at all far away and had something important to share with the world.

We think he was in our back yard, only a few yards from the screened bedroom window. A group of his bloodthirsty friends celebrated a recent kill deeper in the woods, but the Lone Ranger howled his pain or joy or warnings separately.

Next to our house.

For over an hour.

I don’t know when he shut up, because I cowered under the covers and finally lapsed into a coma.

I can only hope a herd of vicious white-tailed deer sneaked up on him and stomped him into silence.  Or the resident wild turkeys chased him back into the woods.  At the very least, I hope he (or she) is hoarse and has found a nice, soft boulder on which to sleep tonight.

If not, we’re prepared to fight back with a couple of pans and my karoke machine.