It’s time you knew the awful truth. Tippy’s not coming home. Neither are Snowball, Muffin, nor Pumpkin. Every year the sad little fliers go up on telephone poles all along my road: “Missing, cat/small dog, reward, please call.” The plea is invariably accompanied by a photo of a fluffy friend guaranteed to make my species revert to baby talk. Every year, it breaks my heart.
Nature is indeed red in tooth in claw at our end of the peninsula, and coyotes are at the top of the four-legged food chain (not including the basically non-hunting bears or the nearly non-existent big cats). Late spring through summer seems to be the time coyotes are most active. According to the state Department of Fish and Wildlife, pups are born in April and May and the young are weaned to solid food about now, which dramatically increases the family’s need for food. While I can’t prove that it’s coyotes disappearing our pets, you don’t have to be a CSI to read the evidence of a well-chewed collar, all that remains of our neighbor’s cat.
Just the other day I came across a coyote on my walk. Though this happens every so often, it’s always a surprise — for both of us. Once again I was startled by its size. While I insist on imagining them as fox-sized, they’re really more like lightly built German shepherds. Whenever one crosses my path, I thank my lucky stars they haven’t decided to pack together and thin the human herd, starting with middle-aged women who have their iPods turned up too high. My son Alex, who’s all over the north end with his College Works exterior house painting service, has seen coyotes from Indianola to Hansville.
The stories, if true, are impressive, spotlighting the coyotes’ cunning and chutzpa. One friend tells of an acquaintance on Sawdust Hill whose Yorkie was snatched by the jaws of death just yards from where she was standing. Another woman swears she saw a coyote chase a cat up a tree and then, more than an hour later, swoop out of the brush to grab the unfortunate feline once the victim thought it finally safe to come down.
My little slice of Kingston has an active coyote population. The territory, from Lindvog Road to the Hansville Highway, has plenty of room for them to roam. When my family got a kitten last summer — the first kitten we’ve had in years — I swore he would be an indoor cat, not only for his protection but for the protection of our birds and chipmunks. That resolution went out the door, literally, the first time he escaped and I saw his pure joy. My attempt to keep him confined is constantly thwarted by a screen door that doesn’t latch and dogs who are forever putting themselves out; if only they would learn to shut the door after themselves.
So I’ve modified my stance to limited outdoor exposure for kitty, and a curfew well before twilight since coyotes do most of their hunting between sunset and sunrise.
Have you heard our local coyotes at night? They don’t have that “romance of the West” cry of Gene Autry movies; they sound like Cthulhu with a tentacle caught in the gates of hell. I’m torn. On the one hand, I can’t bear the thought of Tippy tidbits or Snowball snacks, but, on the other, it’s hard to not root for wildlife tenacious enough to thrive in spite of us.
Columnist Wendy Tweten can be reached at wendy@wendytweten.com.
