Wild animals: better on television
Note: This column appears in the 9/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 9/2 issue of the Peoria Times
After four years of blissful enjoyment of my outdoor desert surroundings, it was bound to happen. Last week I came face-to-face with a coyote.
Granted, our faces were about 25 yards apart, but still. I had just finished a jog around the neighborhood, and was cooling down by walking around the cul de sac near our street that overlooks a barren desert that should have been developed years ago (thanks, economy!) when our eyes met.
It was very similar to that time I was viciously attacked by bears (don’t know what I’m talking about? Buy the book!) in that I felt extremely vulnerable. He—I didn’t think to check the genitalia from afar, so let’s go with “he”—sized me up. I have heard that when confronted by a coyote, one should make lots of noise and move menacingly forward as a means of intimidating the great beast. But we were far enough apart that I didn’t feel overtly threatened, plus I didn’t want to take the chance of screaming and approaching and having him charge me, at which point I would have turned around immediately and started running, thus sealing my fate. I know my neighbors wouldn’t have helped. Instead I maintained eye contact while sidestepping towards my house, and when he was out of sight, I booked it like Usain Bolt, minus the casual confidence.
Ironically, I began that day’s jog telling myself that I should really start carrying something on these runs in case of danger. Something light, of course. A knife? I later mentioned as much to my wife and she laughed, saying, “That’s too close!” She’s right. As if I could imagine some violent struggle between myself and a coyote ending with me stabbing the coyote in the heart. Who do I think I am? Some kind of bearded mountain man? I would need something that would allow me to keep a vast distance. Like a machine gun. Or netting that sprays out of my wrists.
The reason I had been contemplating protection was that our friend, who lives in the neighborhood across the street from ours, had recently experienced the pleasure of seeing a bobcat in her backyard. Not near her backyard. In her backyard, where her kids were playing. Not a cute construction Bobcat. The animal bobcat. Again, for emphasis—a bobcat. In her backyard.
Here’s the thing. We live in a development, and while I realize our Home Owner’s Association can’t feasibly be asked to contain the surrounding wildlife, it’s like, I mean … we pay almost $300 per quarter. I wouldn’t mind if all of that money went towards the bobcat/coyote protection fund. Pools? Parks? Pfft. Don’t care. Can you keep me from getting mauled by a desert animal? Cool. Here is all of my money.
This whole situation has also forced me to rethink everything about myself. I used to be like, “The environment! Save animals! This is their habitat!” which is an admirable line of thinking, until you are in a t-shirt and shorts and staring back at a coyote. Now I’m twitching during cartoons. “Winnie the Pooh will EAT YOUR FACE!” is something I screamed at no one in particular the other day while forcefully turning off the television.
Now I will not leave the house unless it’s behind a steering wheel. I’m not sure what to do. It’s either a treadmill or a gun at this point, and I fear either choice ends with me hurting myself badly.
Those treadmills are too narrow.
Dramatization of my encounter.
After four years of blissful enjoyment of my outdoor desert surroundings, it was bound to happen. Last week I came face-to-face with a coyote.
Granted, our faces were about 25 yards apart, but still. I had just finished a jog around the neighborhood, and was cooling down by walking around the cul de sac near our street that overlooks a barren desert that should have been developed years ago (thanks, economy!) when our eyes met.
It was very similar to that time I was viciously attacked by bears (don’t know what I’m talking about? Buy the book!) in that I felt extremely vulnerable. He—I didn’t think to check the genitalia from afar, so let’s go with “he”—sized me up. I have heard that when confronted by a coyote, one should make lots of noise and move menacingly forward as a means of intimidating the great beast. But we were far enough apart that I didn’t feel overtly threatened, plus I didn’t want to take the chance of screaming and approaching and having him charge me, at which point I would have turned around immediately and started running, thus sealing my fate. I know my neighbors wouldn’t have helped. Instead I maintained eye contact while sidestepping towards my house, and when he was out of sight, I booked it like Usain Bolt, minus the casual confidence.
Ironically, I began that day’s jog telling myself that I should really start carrying something on these runs in case of danger. Something light, of course. A knife? I later mentioned as much to my wife and she laughed, saying, “That’s too close!” She’s right. As if I could imagine some violent struggle between myself and a coyote ending with me stabbing the coyote in the heart. Who do I think I am? Some kind of bearded mountain man? I would need something that would allow me to keep a vast distance. Like a machine gun. Or netting that sprays out of my wrists.
The reason I had been contemplating protection was that our friend, who lives in the neighborhood across the street from ours, had recently experienced the pleasure of seeing a bobcat in her backyard. Not near her backyard. In her backyard, where her kids were playing. Not a cute construction Bobcat. The animal bobcat. Again, for emphasis—a bobcat. In her backyard.
Here’s the thing. We live in a development, and while I realize our Home Owner’s Association can’t feasibly be asked to contain the surrounding wildlife, it’s like, I mean … we pay almost $300 per quarter. I wouldn’t mind if all of that money went towards the bobcat/coyote protection fund. Pools? Parks? Pfft. Don’t care. Can you keep me from getting mauled by a desert animal? Cool. Here is all of my money.
This whole situation has also forced me to rethink everything about myself. I used to be like, “The environment! Save animals! This is their habitat!” which is an admirable line of thinking, until you are in a t-shirt and shorts and staring back at a coyote. Now I’m twitching during cartoons. “Winnie the Pooh will EAT YOUR FACE!” is something I screamed at no one in particular the other day while forcefully turning off the television.
Now I will not leave the house unless it’s behind a steering wheel. I’m not sure what to do. It’s either a treadmill or a gun at this point, and I fear either choice ends with me hurting myself badly.
Those treadmills are too narrow.
Dramatization of my encounter.
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