Fascination

   I place my feet slowly and carefully, balancing on my tiptoes before letting my heel pads drop, but I still can’t avoid the soft crunch of the leaves that have already fallen. It would be so much easier to step quietly if I dropped down to the packed dirt trail, but I can’t risk being seen by the woman who is with you. Fortunately, you two are moving slowly enough for me to follow easily, and my footsteps aren’t any louder than the squirrels, who all of us are accustomed to ignoring. I continue to shadow you two as you amble along the trail, stopping when you pause to converse, but never letting you get out of sight. At one point when she looks down at her phone, I think you might have seen me, but your gaze skates over my face to a woodpecker high above all of us, hammering obnoxiously at a dead tree. Not even the woodpecker can break my reverie about what might happen when we make it all the way to your home. My excitement builds gradually, humming louder the closer we get to the trailhead and the houses beyond it.

    I’ve lived in this part of the forest for many years, and I know the hillside instinctively – every fallen log, every jagged rock, every little crevice. I know where the rivulets run off the rocky overhangs when the rain comes, and how to stay warm and dry in the deep recesses of the small cliffs. I know the most reliable places to look for food in the vegetation and the cleanest water sources. I have unspoken truces with many of the other creatures, and there is a general respect of the natural hierarchy that works to my advantage.

    Of course I have ventured into the neighborhood, but only in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep. Aside from the occasional roaming housecat, it is surprisingly boring – the smells and sounds are muted and industrial compared to the forest, and it is hard to not feel sorry for the trees, stranded among the huge boxy houses, some insultingly even built with wood. It always feels like a relief to get back into the forest from the neighborhood, like the moment in a nightmare where you realize you’re dreaming and can wake yourself up to escape it.

    During the day there are always people passing through on the trails – more in the summer in the winter – wearing their colorful garments and having loud conversations with each other and their devices, oblivious to how quiet the forest is without them. I have heard from friends that the people in other parts of the park play loud music which makes the birds soar away and the mice scurry into their burrows, but that fortunately doesn’t happen very often here. On the contrary, to the northwest, there are parts of the park that rarely have people, but those parts are not my home.  I will reluctantly admit that I sometimes enjoy sitting on a soft patch of ground and observing the people. Plus, without people there would be so many fewer dogs, and I unashamedly enjoy seeing the dogs, they make me feel joyful and young.

    Until the day I spotted you, I had been content to passively observe the creatures as they passed through on the trails, but never with more than a detached regard. The first day I saw you was six months ago as the snow was melting and the ground returning to the spring mud, and your presence felt like being struck by lightning. You were fascinating despite obviously being a creature not of the forest, despite our superficial similarities. Immediately, I was torn between the desire to learn more about you and my fear of the large man at your side. I was so torn it took five months to decide to follow you after taking every opportunity to watch you in the park, one month to see you again after I made that decision and zero seconds to start following you today, knowing I would go as far into the neighborhood as I needed to find your home. Once my mind is made up I am not a patient creature. I could not wait another four weeks to see you, and we all know there are hazards everywhere and that tomorrow is not a guarantee for any of us.

    I slink behind you, drinking in your unique scent. The woman is talking on the phone now, prattling on about an argument she had with a coworker. I drop closer to the trail and her voice grates on my sensitive ears but I recognize it for the stroke of luck that it is – not only is the last bit of sunlight fading but she is completely distracted as we leave the park together and step on the asphalt. I just have to also keep you from noticing me before it’s too soon. As we exit the park, I float along the asphalt on the other side of the street, but you can sense me behind you, and a few times I quickly duck behind parked cars. Once you try to turn in my direction to investigate, but the woman yanks you along, pulling you further away from the forest and closer to your home.

    After a short time, we turn uphill, and then continue away from the park for a few more blocks. Suddenly you both turn into a driveway with complete confidence, making it obvious that we have arrived. As you follow the woman to a side door, I pause to plan my strategy. I obviously won’t be able to enter your house right away, but it would be nice to get close enough to see inside and try to gain some understanding of how you live and where there might be options for covert entry another time.

    Approaching the door, the woman triggers a motion-sensor light, and I duck back around the corner of the house. When I hear the door click closed behind you, I dash past the light on the side of the house into the comfortingly dim blanket of the backyard. From there, I can see through the window into a large room. The woman puts her phone down and removes the band from around your neck. You trot across the room to a small metal structure – I would think it was a trap if you didn’t seem to be going towards it willingly. I shift slightly to try to get a better view, and you notice me, calling out with loud and desperate barks that I can almost understand, and right before I can yelp back, the side door flies open and the light comes on again.

     “Look Elliot, a coyote!” the woman yells.

    My survival instincts kick in and I sprint into the backyard of the house next door, vault over a fence, sprint diagonally across another yard, and then slow to a trot until I get back to the border of the forest. I am safe, and most importantly of all, I know how to find my way back to you. The combination of your scent mixed with the scent of your backyard is burned into my brain permanently, and I know I’ll have chance to visit you again when those pesky humans aren’t around.