Pat Bean's blog

The stillness of night here at Cedar Hill State Park, where the sounds of modern day life are muted, is often broken by the yapping bark of coyotes. It’s a sound that reminds me nature is my backyard. The snippy howls are music to rival that of Willie Nelson singing “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” one of my favorite songs.

The coyotes also fascinate Maggie, the 25-pound, black cocker spaniel who is my traveling companion. Her wild cousins have been leaving scat on the road on which she and I take our daily walk down to the lake and back. Maggie always gets agitated with me because I keep her leash too short for her to stick her nose in the territorial offering.

 A couple of days ago Maggie was on the couch sleeping, her favorite past time, when for no reason that I could tell she awoke. In a flash she was up and barking out the open RV window. Usually that signals a camper with a dog is walking past. Not this time, however.

Maggie’s eyes were glued toward the forest behind our motor home. I looked and saw nothing, and was in the process of sternly telling Maggie to be quiet when something moved. It was a coyote, hidden from a casual view because of how well it melded against a tree trunk. It was close enough for me to see the yellow of its eyes and to be able to distinguish the individual patches of brown and gray fur in its winter coat.

 As I stared in awe, the coyote shifted its gaze from Maggie, whom it appeared to have been studying intently, to me. The coyote and I had a 3-second stare off before it turned its butt toward me and casually sauntered out of sight.

Maggie continued staring out the window for another 10 minutes, while I wrote about the sighting in my journal. I wondered if we were to the coyote what the monkeys in the zoo are to us humans.