We moved to this new home after a temporary four month stay in the city. I found relief in walking our dog in a safer environment. While our urban neighborhood was relatively safe by day, if I returned home after dark, I was fully alert as I walked the dog, listening and watching in earnest. Here, in the suburbs, no matter sunlight or moonlight, I felt far more at ease. But my relief was brief. One cold evening, a neighbor’s car pulled along-side me as I walked the dog in the dark. Rolling down her window, my neighbor informed me that a coyote had spent the evening hours in her back yard, not 50 yards from where I stood. I thanked her for her stern warning that my dog was at risk, and as she drove away, I felt the unease settle in. I had my key chain in my pocket, with a whistle fastened to it. This was my defense against muggers. What it might or might not do to deter a coyote, I had no idea.

For some time, by day or night, I was back to full city-style diligence. I envisioned myself watching in stunned horror as a coyote snatched his lunch from the end of the leash, with me unable to elicit the tiniest noise from the whistle. How fast would he be? How big? One gulp or more? Would I be dessert? Will he ‘leave it’ (‘it’ being the dog) if I muster the command sternly enough?

For some months after, as I walked the pond path, I listened acutely when on the wooded side. A rustle of leaves, perhaps caused by a bunny, would set my heart racing. If I walked after dark with the dog, I stuck to the driveway. I was discouraged by this complication in my natural surroundings.

In time, another neighbor informed me the coyote would not harm the dog, as long as a human was present. He claimed the coyote is more afraid of me than I of him. I’m not fully convinced of this, but choose to feel relieved none the less.

And, eight months later, I sometimes think about the coyote, wondering if he is studying me as I study the pond.