Coyotes
Carolyn J. Rose When I was a kid, growing up in the Catskill Mountains , reading Zane Grey and watching TV westerns, I thought of coyotes as wild and elusive creatures. I viewed them as skittish, flitting at twilight from rock to rock, shadow to shadow. Confession: I also thought of them as ordering an assortment of Acme products in the endless pursuit of a roadrunner. But let’s put that aside. Years passed, I lived in Arizona , and often spotted them. More often I heard them. And heard stories about them. I began to think of them as clever, crafty, opportunistic, and, okay, even sneaky. But I never thought of them as panhandlers, hanging out beside a road, hoping for a handout. And then, back in November, I saw this guy beside a looping dirt road in the Ridgefield Wildlife Refuge. He sat as if on command, wearing a hopeful expression like a dog begging for a biscuit or perhaps hoping to be adopted. We joked that if we opened the car door the coyote
