Yodie is what I called him, short for Coyote. An animal the size of a German Shepherd, with fur cascading around his neck and shoulders, he reminded me of a wolf.
Yodie and I shared a silent understanding. He would emerge from the shadows, nearly invisible, and fix his gaze upon me as I wandered along the familiar path.
Then, two nights ago, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert, I came upon Yodie. He was beside the well-trodden path, marred by a mortal wound.
Yodie had been shot and left to die, a cruel act.
As I approached, a smaller coyote stood nearby, attempting to move Yodie’s body into the concealing embrace of the brush. Yet, Yodie’s spirit still flickered within him.
His eyes met mine, a mixture of defiance and pleading, and he emitted a low snarl followed by a heart-wrenching whimper.
With only the desert stars as witnesses, I made a solemn choice. It was a choice borne of compassion, for no creature should endure needless suffering. With a heavy heart, I raised the pistol I carried for protection, and in one swift, merciful act, I released Yodie from his pain.
I laid him to rest among the embracing arms of the brush, a final act of reverence for a noble spirit that had graced these lands, and listened to the desert wind whisper its mournful lament, carrying Yodie’s essence into the night.
As darkness settled upon the desert the following evening, a chorus of coyotes echoed through the narrow canyons. Once full of wild exuberance, their yipping carried a deeper, more mournful tone.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but it was as if they, too, felt the loss of Yodie.
Tears welled in my eyes, and in the stillness of the night, I mourned the passing of Yodie, knowing that his spirit would forever roam the vast expanse of the untamed West.
The Old Blog in the Desert 