14 September 2021
The Night of the Coyote
Last night was The Night of the Coyote. I fell asleep late, past midnight. I’d spent the evening immersed in much research (much much research) to hunt down the manufacturing location of a Dell monitor for the work-station that I’m putting together for my creative endeavours, including the Westerns.
Of course, the Dell website contained no “Country of Origin” info in the voluminous specs. A definite sign that the thing sure wasn’t made in America. That particular would have been trumpeted and yippee aye oh’d, yippee ki-yay’d — all over the website.
Scouring about 100 product reviews, rummaging through consumer info sites, and micro-examining pix on e-Bay brought me to only one conclusion: The Odious 5-letter Proper Noun that shall not be typed on this Apple Page.
My consumer boycott list would also include Southern CA and the Bay Area, except those s-hole regions do not manufacture much, except crime, medieval diseases, and phony votes. Those two population centers need more and more cash from outside of CA to try to survive their own botched suicides. Those urban sprawls are on my exclusive No-Travel list; their No-Go Zones expand as I type this essay in a very distant and safe place.
Despite the moral mandate of my non-Xi list, I purchased the computer screen manufactured in that commie-country by Dell, an American company, instead of a very comparable one by Samsung, a South Korean brand. That multi-national has supposedly recently switched its production from There to Vietnam, but product reviews were patchy; they also indicated the merchandise was still a commie-export.
You really do not know the full and undeniable truth, horrid as it may be, until you get The Box at your front door.
With some disappointment, I yielded to the practicalities of reality. I do confess that the fashionista promo pic got to me for the 24-inch Monitor - S2421HSX, 60.45 cm (23.8), Free-Sync, HDMI cable. The 60 Hz level, instead of the highly-coveted gamer 75 Hz, did not interrupt my sine wave love for this digital screen. That seamstress poised in front of her screen is a marvelous selling ploy to a designing woman like myself.
I slept like a log until 5:50 a.m. At that instant, Chance the Beagle bolted to an upright position at the end of the bed. With a rebel cry, he catapulted his body over the footboard, almost leaping into the doorway as he let out another baying shriek of canine torment. My bleary eyes followed Dear Husband trailing after the tricolored pooch in the semi-darkness; and then I tucked my head under the blanket. The baying of my hound was joined by the barking of half a dozen other dogs in the countryside around my house. I eventually fell back to sleep.
It was almost eleven of the clock when I woke up this morning. I queried Dear Husband about that sudden and loud eruption of the howls before sunrise. Hubby is in charge of the dawn hound patrol. He’s also in charge of the graveyard shift hound patrol. This division of labor has been ongoing for years and, after last night, it isn’t likely to change soon, or easily.
According to the Hound Patroller, last night there was a pack of prowling coyotes adjacent to our property. All of the dogs in this neighborhood of woods and meadows, about 60 acres, were on high-alert because of those predatory animals.
I questioned Mr. Milligan about the sounds those critters make. He described them as high-pitched yips, with a short cadence and a tinny timbre.
It was evidently feeding time for these carnivores who wanted to signal one another and gloat about their hunting prowess. They’d killed some of a large flock of wild turkeys that had recently tromped through these parcels of land. There must have been at least fifty of those game birds on my property, just this past week. Last winter, some wild turkeys had scampered on the roof of our new house, with thumping sounds that we’d initially misperceived as sugar pine cones dropping from the trees.
During the earliest morning hours today, those wild creatures were still yowling and taunting the domesticated canines who then formed a circular barking chain, all around the forested pastures of my town. The turkey drop this season was accomplished by those coyotes.
Since I know very little about this type of canid, I decided to conduct some research into the subject, for personal and professional reasons. I found the following information in my non-politically correct Encyclopedia Britannica, published n 1959:
“A North American member of the dog family, also known as the prairie wolf, Canis latrans. Ranging from Alaska in the north to Guatemala in the south and frequenting almost every kind of country, especially the plains, the coyote is smaller than the wolf and more jackal-like. The length is about 36 inches, the tail being 12-15 inches; the general colour grizzled buffy above, and whitish below; the legs ochraceous; the tail having a black tip and a dark gland-patch near the root. There is, however, considerable local variation in size and colour.
Coyotes are slinking and stealthy creatures. They live in burrows in the plains and hunt at night, hares, chipmunks and mice form a large portion of their food; but also the fawns of deer and prongduck, sage hens and other game birds.”
“A surprising amount of vegetable food is also taken, fruit of prickly pear cactus, rose hips and juniper berries. They dig burrows for themselves, usually on a slope, or take possession of those already made by badgers and prairie dogs. There in the spring, the half-dozen or more coyote pups are brought forth.
The yapping cry of the coyote is one of the most characteristic notes of the West.”
Those notes of the West might still be ringing in the ears of the four-legged domesticated friends who, along with their humans, did not sleep much last night. Poor Chancey Boy slept most of this day. Which means he will be ready to spring into action tonight, if those nocturnal sneaks are at it again — partying hardy and hungry with wild turkey in their favorite habitat, our wooded grasslands and open woodland. Every three acres, there’s a house with people in it, interrupting those calls of the wild.
Dear Hubby tells me that those ornery mammals devour everything. Not even a wishbone is left from the scrawny poultry. And coyotes are scavengers. The California ones move on to their next meal whenever the unsuspecting victims present themselves.
As for me, this Thanksgiving, I’m hoping to have a lot more than a mere wishbone.