The Coyote Saga

Organized Coyote Packs

We checked the snares we set on Frank’s property.  The bait was gone, but no coyote to be found.  Only tampered with snares that needed to be re-set.  Frank checked them a couple days later, only to find one of his dogs caught in one – my fear.

The domestic dogs – the “good cops” – were not the snaring goal.  The organized coyote packs were.  Organized criminals in the wilderness.  Thankfully, Frank’s dog was fine and unharmed.

A coyote hunter from the US, Randy, commented about the number of coyotes yipping in one of my videos, and expressed his thoughts from experience:  he suspected there were a lot of older, mature coyotes running organized packs because of the great numbers, with the goal to kill large game.  Working together in groups, not pairs.  He was right.

Research reports that coyotes hunt in pairs.  However, when coyote populations reach a high density, research also found coyotes will hunt in packs.  I thought about the three sets of eyes I had seen with my flash light in the dark, behind my house a few weeks ago, and thought about the three mature coyotes sent on a mission to eliminate my dogs.

With coyotes giving birth to more pups in spring, they become more territorial than at other times of the year.  With such a high population, which had been allowed to grow for a few years due to the lack of hunting for coyotes, the area was insanely congested.  And, the coyotes kept on breeding.

This coyote pup production, year after year, created a situation causing greater aggression for territorial rights from the coyotes.  They vocalized their false perception about owning the right to our land and protecting their area from my recent increase in dogs – a small pack who were giving the message, “not so fast, varmints.  This is ours, not yours”.

On our quarter of land alone – 150 acres – we knew there were at least three dens on it and a fourth den at the edge of our property.  Intense numbers.  I had also read in a wildlife book that a female coyote will give birth anywhere from one to twenty pups at a time.

I read an article linked from www.coyotehunter.net about the necessity to target and kill alpha coyotes, research done by a university study.  However, after thinking about this, I felt it may not be such a great idea to do so in a heavily coyote populated area where organized groups were working together.

First, I reasoned with myself that a person had to get to the alphas first – not an easy task with organized groups. Alpha coyotes will send out young scouts, watching in the back ground.  I had heard stories such as this from first hand accounts with coyote hunters regarding how an alpha coyote would sacrifice his own young and save himself when under attack – gun fire.  Alphas also gain years of experience at survival, and a high degree of intelligence.

Second, should a person successfully take out an alpha coyote first, chaos would surely result within an established organized group of coyotes.  More chaos – if that is possible – while re-establishing a new order within the pack with the leaders gone.

The best strategy, I felt, was to start shooting every coyote we saw, and then focus on the alphas on our quarter of land.  The coyotes, however, were devising their own plans and strategies of attack on us, leaving me to deal with the invasions they executed.

I reminded myself about a life strategy I had adopted for years:  Never under-estimate your opponent.  That works both ways.

Coyote Chaos In The Night – Again

Zena, Chancy, Zippy and Rexi charged down our driveway into the darkened night.  I heard hoof beats thundering on the ground while whinnies from each group of horses cut through the darkness.  Whinnies meant to locate each other.  Whinnies like sirens alerting all small herds to gather in numbers.  The sound of yearlings galloping and panicking  around their corral re-awakened an old fear within me.

Memories of herds locating each other, calling to band together in a huddle.  Memories of helplessness as I sat in the barn, listening, unable to do anything.  Memories of a dead foal and yearlings.  I panicked.

“Get the gun!” I yelled in desperation, rushing for the closet housing my 30-30.

“There’s nothing you can do about it.  It’s dark out,” Curtis said.

The tone of his voice, the choice of his words, infuriated me.  I glared at him, grasping my gun.  I clenched my teeth and grabbed my hunting fleece, my fingers searching for bullets in its pockets.

I despised those words – nothing you can do about it.  I had heard those words come from mouths in many instances in my life.  Nothing you can do about it, roll over, expose your belly and cry victim.  Never.  A mantra I was not, nor ever was, willing to submit to.  There is always something that can be done, no matter how small, to make a positive and progressive step towards change.

“Maybe you won’t do anything about ‘it’, but I will,” I hissed.  “This is my land.  These are my horses.  I have a right to protect my animals.”

“Wait!  Wait!” he yelled as I charged out of the house to my van, clutching the 30-30 while noting the front tire was almost flat.  “We don’t have a spotlight.  You won’t see them.” Rexi jumped in when I opened the door.

“I’m not waiting anymore,” I snarled, slamming the door and rolling down the window to stick my head out, “The horses are going crazy.  The coyotes are yipping.  The dogs are going nuts.” I put the headlights on high beam, “There – great spotlight!” I thrust the van into reverse.

I drove down the driveway, slowly, aware of the flattening front tire.  Zippy ran beside the van.  I angled the headlights to the little clearing beside the driveway, which was once the regular trek route for the coyotes until Zena perched on the bales around the clock and forced the coyotes to go around her.  For a brief moment, a set of eyes flashed back from the bush.

I continued down the driveway, making a U-turn at the end of it so that my headlights would shine entirely over the little area.  I sighed with relief, seeing my mares.  I began a head count.  They snorted and spooked when I shut the door.  My concern amplified at their behavior.  They continued to snort and blow as the dogs appeared in front of the headlights, making them flag their tails to gallop off.

“Girls!  Girlie-girls!  It’s me and the dogs!”

A few of my older mares stopped and looked back.  The rare sight of the whites of their eyes looked towards the direction of my voice.  I ran to the fence, in front of the headlights.

“Girls,” my loyal band returned to me, acting spooky, nervous and ready for flight.  I soothed them, running my hands over some of their bodies on the verge of breaking a sweat.

The young yearlings in the corral in the yard began screaming.  The mares replied, rushing off in the direction of the corrals.  The sound of stallions calling and racing in their paddocks amplified my panic.  The dogs barked and charged towards the bush.

My heart pounded.  My breath quickened.

I drove a little faster with the flat tire back to the house, not caring if I was about to ruin the rim.  Curtis stood there, looking at me.  I ignored him.

I rushed to the barn, turning on all the lights and spotted the quad.  Revving it up, I placed my 30-30 across my lap and pointed the headlights in the direction of the bush by the barn.  Sets of eyes again reflected back for a moment.  The horses stood, tails at half mast, looking in the direction of the bush.

“Get out of here!” I yelled at the predators, along with obscene threats and promises.

In my frenzy, I was unaware that Zippy was staying true to my side, as well as Rexi.  I knew Zena and Chancy were holding down the driveway area, barking like killers.  The comfort of my female canine team ready for combat at the driveway, where I assumed my black Zippy was also in the dark night, comforted me on one level.  I had excellent back up.  I wasn’t alone.  They had the west area covered.

I wasn’t the only one determined to make this farm on the edge of town tranquil, safe and serene – coyote free.

I could depend on my dogs for back up.

A Loyal Dog’s Lesson

I put the quad into motion, heading for the airstrip to get a view of the small 20 + acre section that coyote sirens had also come from.  Surrounding us.

“Where are you!  Show yourselves!” I yelled and swore at the vacant clearing.  Zippy appeared, surprising me, along with little Rexi.  Zippy lowered her head, fixated, as if she was stalking something.  I watched, still surprised that the dogs had chased behind my quad at the speed I had drove at in my rush to cover the east side of my yard while Zena and Chancy covered the west side.  Zippy was about to trot beneath the fence line and rush in.

“Zippy, come back!” I said, fearing she was seeing something I couldn’t and may get ambushed.  Obedient, she rushed to my side then looked towards the lit up area.

Zippy tipped her head, looking and listening.

The quad idled.  I sat, holding my 30-30 across my lap watching the dog no one wanted stance beside me, ready to charge in if she felt she had too.

She had clung to me after I brought her home a couple months earlier.  Never leaving more than a few feet from me.  She would even growl at Curtis when he approached, but never at my children.  She protected them too, including the babies, who she licked gently on their heads and allowed them to pull at her or climb over her or use her body to help them stand from a sitting position.

My loyalty and devotion for Zippy amplified in that moment.  The dog no one wanted.  The write off.

It had been years since I had such a devoted and strong relationship with a canine – a one woman dog.  Loyalty, like a well bred Arabian shows to her partner when the connection is strong.  Such loyalty, and a stand by you no matter what attitude is a rarity in humanity.  I swallowed the rising lump.

“Come, Zippy,” I said to her gently.  She looked up at me and wagged her tail, “Come on the quad.”  I slapped my hand to my thigh.

She danced, hesitated, wanting to jump up.  I reached down and lifted her up – and Rexi – while adjusting my gun laying across my legs.  Zippy sat in front of me.  I grabbed her and hugged her tightly.  A dog unable to offer human words, only actions that spoke louder.

I held her with one arm as I drove slowly to the yard and in front of the house.  Feeling defeated and helpless about the coyote situation, I took refuge in Zippy.

Zippy & Me, Rexi beside, after coyote chaos late one night...

“We’ll get them, Zippy,” I said, kissing her head, “They’ll slip up and when they do, we’ll be ready.”

A few nights later, my prediction presented itself.  The three coyotes were back.  My three dogs were ready.  And, so were we…