Delightful existence and Coyote

I’ve squatted before the print of a coyote and felt the brush of something against my arm. Laughing Coyote. Old Man Coyote. How can you not believe in gods this particular afternoon? The wolfberry glows. Clouds race across the sky. There’s the chalky smell of dust. Delightful existence. What could be taboo?”

Sharman Apt Russell

The Canidae or dog family originated in North America some 40 million years ago. Eventually they encompassed dozens of species with the coyote, specifically, evolving here and staying here. For thousands of years, as soon as humans got here, too, they saw this laughing glimpse of a figure in their peripheral vision. They made up stories, hundreds of Coyote tales in dozens of Native American tribes. There are so many stories that historian Dan Flores believes Coyotism was a kind of Paleolithic pan-religion.

Coyote, the god, often got involved in the creation of the world, sometimes heroically, sometimes as a comic fool. He released Buffalo from underground, found Salmon a home, defeated Gila Monster. He brought fire to people. He also brought death. He juggled his eyes and lost them. He talked to his feces, and his feces talked back. He could behave badly, having sex with his daughter, having sex with almost anything. He murdered his friend Wolf and urinated on Woodrat’s store of food. He is reviled for being ridiculous and extreme, and he is cherished for being ridiculous and extreme.

What we especially love about coyotes, what we see reflected—something about us—is their ability and need to communicate. Coyotes growl, huff, woof, bark, and bark-howl as a warning or sound of alarm. They whine and yelp in greeting and submission, saying “Hello,” saying “Be nice to me.” Famously, coyotes bark-yip-yip-yip-howl alone or as a group, with individuals easily recognized by their timbre, cadence, and warbling. This kind of choral song is happening all over North America, although you have to be outside to hear it.

Barks and howls can convey distance. These performances help coyotes know where another group is and who they are. Sometimes sound is deliberately deceptive. Coyotes can seem like a larger pack with rapid changes in pitch amplified by echoes bouncing off rocks and trees. Mostly, though, questions are raised and answered. “How did you get so lost?” “Come home quickly.” “Stop. Don’t come over here at all.”

In Silver City, I was once in a community choir as a beta female, not very good at singing, just happy to be part of the pack. We chose sweet songs, “The Extraordinary Light of Your Being,” “We Hold You in Our Circle,” for their lyrics about solidarity and optimism. Each time, I felt the joy of raising my voice with others. Music carried me out of my pain or loneliness and created in that moment a purpose and meaning. I have to think that coyotes feel this, too.

All canine tracks share some common features. They usually register four toes. A reduced toe and heel pad are higher up on the front legs. Canine tracks are symmetrical. One half of the track looks roughly like the other half. They have a typical pattern in what trackers call the negative space. Like a rubber stamp, this is the area between the toe pads and palm pad when the foot touches a surface. In canines, you can usually draw an X in this negative space without bisecting any of the pads. X for Xylophone is my mnemonic. (Sometimes that negative space looks more like an H.)

Canine tracks also have palm pads that are relatively small compared to the size of the track. The top of the palm pad in a canine has one lobe and can look like a point. The bottom of the palm pad has two or three lobes. These tracks usually show the impression of claws or nails. (Front tracks look different from hind tracks, but that’s too much detail for this short article. Tracking involves a lot of detail.)

I am always pleased to see a coyote track. The shape is oval. The X is clear. Typical for a wild canine, the four toes are relatively close together and point forward. Trackers would say the print is compact, with little splay. These trackers carry rulers, but I often forget mine. Finding some part of your body to measure with is handy. From the tip of my index finger to the crease of my second joint is about two inches. A coyote track in the American Southwest would measure roughly two to three inches or between my second finger joint and the base of my finger.

Domestic dog tracks can be similar in size and shape. But the claw marks of a domestic dog are typically large and blunt, while those of a coyote are smaller and sharper, looking like tiny circles or triangles, sometimes like pinpricks. You might only see two small claw marks above the middle toes. Another clue is that domestic dogs tend to leave a heavier imprint than coyotes, and their tracks are relatively flat, not angled down toward the toes. Also, domestic dogs are usually well fed, with energy to spare, so they meander. They lark. Coyotes tend to be more cost-effective, getting straight to where they want to go. Often they place a hind foot over the front foot in what is called a double register. Coyotes typically leave a straight line of double register tracks when they are trotting, their favorite way of moving through the world.

Purpose, efficiency, caution—a single track can emanate these qualities.

I’ve sensed that other presence, too. I’ve squatted before the print of a coyote and felt the brush of something against my arm. Laughing Coyote. Old Man Coyote. How can you not believe in gods this particular afternoon? The wolfberry glows. Clouds race across the sky. There’s the chalky smell of dust. Delightful existence. What could be taboo? Certainly not the stuff of matter: gristle and rock, sex, urine, feces. It’s all good. It’s all Creation.