This coyote is healthy. Photo by Daniel Lloyd Blunk-Fernández on Unsplash

The Coyote

I panicked when I saw the mangy coyote run past our backyard cam. Something snapped. I flew into emergency mode like I always do when I see an animal in trouble. I didn’t think it through. All I knew was I had to help that coyote.

We have cameras set up all around our house to record the wildlife that lives here. We see bear, bobcat, fox, deer, and all kinds of smaller animals like raccoon and mink and possum.

I know something about mange and it’s awful. I saved a mangy cat from a long agonizing death when I lived in Florida. I called him Scrabbagey Cat.

I had never encountered mange before and thought the term ‘mangy dog or cat’ just meant the animal was dirty and uncared for but mange is real and terrible. It is caused by mites that dig into and through the skin, causing intense itching from an allergic reaction to the mite’s feces, and crusting that can quickly become infected. Hair loss and crusting frequently appear first on elbows and ears. Skin damage can occur from the intense scratching and biting. Eventually the animal starves to death.

I first encountered mange and realized it was a death sentence when I saw Scrabbagey Cat. He didn’t even look like a cat when I first caught sight of him. He had no fur just a thick crust all over his body. He was emaciated and ran between hedges and other hiding places in an uncoordinated, drunken way as if he were spastic. He looked like a strange alien creature. I even said “What’s that?” the first time I saw him run by.

I realized pretty quickly that he was a cat, just not like any cat I’d ever known, and he was in trouble.

I flew into emergency mode. I made him a box on my front porch with food and water and he moved right in. Then after a day or so, I captured him in a cat carrier and brought him to the vet. It only took a few drops of medicine on his neck to treat the mange. I brought him back home and he got used to me sitting with him. I started picking and peeling the now dead crust off his skin. It was everywhere and he would lean against me in ecstasy while I cleaned the crust from his body until he was naked. He was so grateful. His relief from the itchy, ugly mange was palpable and he quickly grew a beautiful gray coat. He stayed with us for a while but eventually a neighborhood family adopted him. He had a new lease on life and it only took a few drops of medicine.

The coyote on my camera was obviously suffering and would eventually die from the mange. He looked terrible with a thin hairless tail and hardly any fur to keep him warm. His gait was desperate and I’m sure he was slowly starving. I was beside myself. I wondered how I could help him. I couldn’t catch him and bring him to the vet like a feral cat. What could I do? I felt urgent and frantic and helpless.

We had gotten about two feet of snow that night but the day dawned bright and cloudless. I cooked up some breakfast sausages, put them in a plastic bag and headed for the woods behind my house. Maybe the coyote was still around and I could at least give him something to eat.

My husband said, no. I shouldn’t go. It was too dangerous. The snow was too deep and the coyote would be miles away. The camera had picked him up around 1AM. It was now 8AM. He was long gone. I had Parkinson’s and was not a young woman. No, I wasn’t allowed to go. I was crazy and careless if I thought this was a good idea.

But I didn’t listen. I had to at least try.

The snow was deep in the woods and I couldn’t see the trail. I struggled over barbed wire and the remains of old fences hidden from view. There were blocks of cement and stones from a broken wall and pits and holes and steep hills. I managed to make it into a clearing and I howled and yipped like a coyote just in case he was nearby. It made me laugh, imagining someone coming across an old woman standing in the middle of the woods howling with a bag of warm sausages clutched in her mittens.

I tried to get up a steep hill but just as I reached the top, I lost my footing and slid all the way down again. I tried a few times, throwing my bag of sausages up a few feet then crawling up after it. Finally I would make it to the top without sliding, just to find another hill to conquer.

I stayed in the woods for about an hour but no coyote. I could hear the people snow-blowing along the ridge where the houses were. The busy sound of voices and the roar of engines was clear and sharp in the early morning air. There is a dreamy quality that always comes after a big snow especially if the new day dawns bright and sunny.

The ravine behind my house was carved out by the river probably thousands of years ago. Now the river was about half a mile away but the ravine was evidence of its old path. Old sheds and outbuildings tucked deep in the woods were falling apart and listing to one side but the snow gave them grace and mystery, softening the edges of the abandoned planks and crooked window frames. Still no coyote.

Finally, I turned toward the voices and after a long struggle I gained the top of the steepest edge and threw myself over a newly plowed snowbank into someone’s driveway. Two men were busy clearing the snow from their property when they saw a woman, covered in snow, roll over the snowbank and into their yard from the woods. I was still clutching my bag of sausages.

I must have been the last thing they expected to see fly over the snowbank and tumble into their yard.

“Hello,” they called approaching me cautiously.

“Good morning.” I said as if nothing was out of the ordinary and turned to walk home.

“Are you ok? Would you like a ride?” The older man asked coming closer and meaning to detain me. He turned to the younger man. “Give her a ride.”

“Do you need a ride?” the younger man asked, obviously not wanting to stop what he was doing to drive a crazy old woman somewhere.

“No, no. I only live a few houses down.”

They eyed my bag of sausages unconvinced, but after a few more questions, they let me go. I’m sure they were conflicted. I could have been suffering from dementia and was an escapee from the looney bin for all they knew.

My husband was furious when I got home, but I was elated and couldn’t see things from his perspective. I hadn’t found the poor coyote, but I had climbed up hills and slid down again and trudged through the snow on a beautiful winter morning. I felt invigorated. I’d had an adventure.

I felt like Tina Fey when I tumbled over the snowbank and surprised the two men. Their reaction was hysterically funny. The absurdity wasn’t lost on me. It was just the kind of thing Tina Fey would do. Legs flying in all directions as she awkwardly threw herself the last few feet and over the snowbank landing in a heap on the newly plowed driveway. Then gathering herself up a little unsteadily with a big smile on her face as if nothing were wrong.

When I was in the woods, I wasn’t worried about breaking my leg or getting caught in a hole or losing my phone or meeting an unfriendly coyote. All the things my husband worried about as the hour crawled by and he imagined the worst.

My husband was so affected by my little adventure, so freaked out, he has never treated me the same way again. It bothered me that no one could see the humor in it. They all thought I had taken unnecessary risks and put myself in a situation that could have ended up with me getting hurt all because of a mangy coyote that I wouldn’t be able to save anyway. They questioned my judgement. If I could do that, what else was I capable of?

Now they jump on any lapse in memory or unorthodox idea and use it as evidence of my weakened mind. I have always been one to poke the bear but now they see me as unpredictable and impulsive. They don’t trust me.

That poor coyote must be long dead but in trying to help him, I lost something of value that day that I will never regain.

Was it worth it? Would I do it again?

Yes, I think I would. His ragged image as he frantically ran past my camera that night has not faded. I had to try. Even if no one else understands. I had to try.