I have officially decided I am going to hunt coyotes. A nature and animal lover, I was born into a family of hunters. My father’s reputation as an excellent marksman ensured guns were common place. The one rule about shooting a gun in our family was that you had to hit a target every time – empty bottles on fence posts – or you would not be allowed to shoot any longer. My brother, Shawn – five years my senior – passed that rule onto me. When I was around the age of ten, I missed. Once. He held fast to that rule.
By my pre-teens, I went on eating strikes, refusing to eat wild meat, or any meat for that matter, unless I was absolutely sure of its source. I had, and still have, a habit of making pets out of livestock, naming them. As a child, after the disappearance of my pet pig, Oinker, it was also quickly realized that I had an ability to read lying eyes at the dinner table. No more animals with names mysteriously disappeared after that.
My melt downs were impressive on the rare occasions Shawn broke the rule requiring him to fore-warn me that he was in the garage skinning an animal he trapped. Mama’s face would twist as she swung her fist in circles, her cheeks fire red while her eyes were ready to explode, ranting about how he needed to be more sensitive to his earth loving, tree hugging, bring-every-stray-home sister. Shawn would add the word “freak” before the word “sister”. I’d accuse him of being a murderer.
On weekends during trapping season, we’d travel to the fur traders. Anger pulsated through my veins as I watched them count the pelts and exchange money for them. The carcasses. The guns. I also vocalized what I thought about the animal heads mounted on the hunting store’s walls, not caring who I was offending. Soon, I was bracing myself in the vehicle and winning the reward of sitting in a cold car until my father and brother came out. It all made me ill, despising hunters.
So, when I recently announced I was going to start hunting coyotes, no one took me seriously. Perhaps it was the shock that made them giggle and laugh, as if I told a good joke. However, through my thirty seven years of life, I no longer view hunting with black and white opinions. I also see the grey areas. My deep respect and practice of native spirituality over the last decades has shed some understanding on the ancient practice of hunting. I believe in balance, without extremities. And, I love nature and animals more than ever.
I also loved the foal my first riding mare gifted me when I was sixteen - a foal attacked by coyotes. My uncle arrived too late. Not many believed us at that time. They do now.
I also loved my little teacup terrier who was suddenly snatched up five years ago by a coyote because I let him out to do his business. Along with another little dog who’s barking suddenly ceased. I loved all my barn cats that disappeared from my yard, including one poor young cat who somehow managed to escape complete death – perhaps the dogs intervened. Curtis saved me from the horror of that scene, as she had managed to struggle with her front paws and drag what was left of her mangled, hairless and bloody hind legs back to the house. He put her out of her misery. I miss the young purebred foal devoured by a gang of coyotes while I was helpless to intervene, crying for weeks from guilt and the “should haves”, feeling like a failure I could not protect him. I also miss my yearling filly, who became a meal for a group of coyotes.
Calls to the conservation officer and the local coyote hunter left me frustrated. I didn’t like the idea of snaring – what if my dogs, and other innocent wildlife, ended up in the snare? Poisoning would not solve the problem either, considering we are within a mile of town limits. Everyone has pets that could potentially be endangered, including my dogs. Not to forget about the other wildlife in our area that could be impacted for no reason other than accidental poisoning. Poisoning, I imagine, is a horrible death. Poisoning, in my opinion, is not being responsible and thinking of the bigger picture.
I listen to the surround sound of coyotes yipping every evening around my farm. Year after year growing in numbers. Desperate.
I’m afraid to leave my cherished two young boys out to play after having seen a coyote trot two hundred feet from where my three year old was playing at high noon this past fall. My black lab, Chancey, chased it off. I also have twin boys who will be walking this summer, venturing out into the yard. Thinking of the coyote who trotted past at high noon still sends chills to coarse through my maternal veins, and I lose sleep at night.
Yes, I love animals, but I love my children much more. Truly blessings after so many failed attempts to have children. I also love my life and freedom to observe wildlife that, one summer evening two years ago, came to a halt. I was approached by a very large coyote, three dogs with me. It still yipped and challenged us across the small creek separating us.
I love my children, my animals and wildlife so much, I am now on a mission to hunt the hunters. The grossly over-populated wild prairie dogs that continue to grow in numbers, terrorizing my family, my horses, my pets - and neighbors.
I am tired of wiping my tears from losses, which the coyotes are responsible for. I have dealt with the burden of guilt for not being able to do something. I can do something. I refuse to continue to ask or beg men in various areas to assist me. I am taking matters into my own hands. I never cared for the damsel in distress bit, anyway. Or the victim role. My inner warrioress has risen. With any luck, and a little practice, I will have inherited my father’s marksmen abilities.
This blog is the journal of my coyote hunting journey as it unfolds – Part informative and, perhaps, part entertainment. To follow it, you will also need a sense of humor and appreciation for the lighter side of a serious issue.
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