Oops. I just found this unpublished post in my drafts. I think I wrote it in February or March of 2021? It makes me so much more grateful for my barn.

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The coyotes are loud tonight.

January was their real mating season, and they were crazy loud then, but tonight they’re especially noisy. I can hear them yowling and yipping on the back mountain. I used to find it beautiful to listen to, but now I’ve got the goats.

I don’t have quite enough land to warrant the way my neighbors would hate me if I got a livestock guardian dog, but I’ve got enough to worry about wildlife creeping onto our property.

We have the goats area fenced, but let’s be real- all it would do is stop the coyotes from dragging off one of the goats after they killed one. So, on nights like tonight, I sleep with my ears pricked and my boots ready by the door.

Sometime right before midnight, the coyotes break out in a chorus loud enough I can not only make out the individuals, but I swear I can hear the breaths they take in between each high-pitched call. I bolt out of bed and shove my legs in some jeans and my feet into cold boots. One quick swipe of the flashlight I keep by the coffee pot, and I’m out the door.

It sounds like they’re right outside my window, but I actually think they’re on the lower half of my property. Still, it’s way, way too close. I turn on my flashlight flash it over the hill and the yowling stops at once, except for one half-grown pup whose quavery call turns into a whine in the silence.

You can almost hear them waiting in the now-quiet, poised for flight but not yet gone. The air has a tense feel, although Reverie is still laying down, so it’s possible that’s just my imagination. Still, maybe it’s a sixth sense but I swear I can still feel the coyotes on our property.

Artemis is by my side, growling. Our backyard is fenced, and there’s a good three hundred feet beyond the gate before the land slopes down, so even if my gut is right, the pack is not nearly as close as they feel.

“Good girl,” I say, and she pricks her ears up at me, pleased. She growls again, and gives a deep, deep bark.

“Good girl,” I say again. She wags her tail twice, hard, so very pleased with herself. She stands beside me, hackles raised, and growls again. I feel like a scene from an Old Western. It’s just me and my trusty dog, standing guard beneath the full moon against a pack of varmints. I encourage Artemis again, and she takes a few bounces forward, barking deep and loud.

In the silence afterwards, I swear I can hear the coyotes mumble a cuss word and flee. We’re still in the backyard, so I know there’s no chance of her running off and actually coming into contact with a coyote, so I encourage her again. “Good girl. You tell ’em”

She barks deeply again, still growling, and she’s so very pleased to have this job. I’m proud of her, too. “Good girl. You go get ’em.” Her body stiffens, and she stares at me with electric tension. “That’s right. GO GET EM ARTEMIS!”

And she’s off, running full tilt, every line of her movement tense with explosive eagerness as she leaps forward and…..

Frantically searches the bushes for her ball. She’s determined to uncover it, convinced there’s a ball hiding in the foilage. She’s completely ignoring me now.

Oh thaaaaat’s right. “Go get it” in Lab-Speak means find your ball.

There is no more trusty sidekick. There is no more helpful growling. There is no more defending the homestead. There is only the invisible ball she is certain she’s going to sniff out, if only she can circle the tree and crash through the underbrush, one more time.

From further away, near the treeline, I hear the lone yip of that half grown coyote.

I swear it sounds like laughter.