The Sage of Survival

It’s a curious thing about the coyote—this wiry, unlovely specimen of the animal kingdom that roams the deserts with the air of a bankrupt philosopher. I’ve studied him closely, for once you’ve encountered a coyote, you can’t help but feel a peculiar mixture of amusement and pity, the same as you might for a poorly tuned fiddle played with great confidence.

A coyote is a gaunt affair—a lean, rangy frame draped in a grayish hide that looks like it might peel off in a stiff wind. Its tail hangs as if apologizing for following it around, and its eyes have a calculating gleam as if it’s measuring the distance between your throat and its survival. To put it plainly, it’s the living embodiment of hard times, a shuffling bundle of bones and hunger with an outlook that would make even a miser look extravagant.

Now, there’s a drama to the coyote’s movements. If you meet one in the desert, it’ll fix you with a look that says, “Don’t get any ideas, friend,” before trotting off in a peculiar, gliding gait.

It’s a performance, you see, for it’s careful to keep you interested just enough to make you wonder if you could catch him. Spoiler: you can’t.

If you make a move for your pistol, it’ll put a mile of sagebrush between you before the hammer’s half-cocked. It’s not fast, mind you—it’s cunning. It doesn’t run; it insinuates itself into the horizon.

Now, if you happen to unleash a self-respecting dog after it, the real show begins. The coyote’s first move is to let that dog think it’s got it dead to rights.

It trots just ahead, casting over-the-shoulder glances so tantalizingly smug they’d make a saint curse. The dog, pride swelling with every stride, puts all his faith in his legs and none in his better judgment. The coyote, meanwhile, moves as if propelled by sheer scorn.

Round about mile two, the dog begins to reconsider his career choices. His lungs burn, his legs falter, and the coyote—cool as a shadow—glances back one last time with a look that says, “Bless your heart,” and vanishes like smoke in a breeze.

The dog slinks home, head hung low, a chastened beast. It’s a humbling affair that leaves the dog pondering the fragility of ego for weeks to come.

The coyote’s diet is as varied as his luck. He subsists on the leavings of discarded scraps and the occasional miracle of carrion. He shares his grim repast with his comrades, the ravens and buzzards.

His bark—a high, sharp thing like the crack of a whip—pierces the desert nights. It’s a mournful sound, a complaint against the universe for having the audacity to exist.

And yet, despite his wretched appearance and hard luck, you can’t help but admire him. He’s a scrapper, a survivor, a proof of the tenacity of life in its most threadbare form.

If the world ends tomorrow, there is little doubt the coyote will be there the day after, trotting through the rubble, looking for something edible and smiling to himself at the foolishness of it all.