Coyote Brain Freeze

Last winter, when the wind blew so sharp it could shave your eyebrows clean off, I found myself helping my buddy Jim round up his small herd of cattle—twenty-five cows and one bull who thought he was tougher than the weather.

Now, I’ve always said yes to Jim’s invitations, mostly because he’s the kind of guy who still believes in paying you back in stories, strong coffee, and whatever food his missus is fixin’ on the stove. So I bundled up in every article of clothing I owned, which meant I looked less like a cowboy and more like a poorly wrapped scarecrow, and headed out to help him move his herd from one frozen pasture to another.

We were out in the high country, where the frost doesn’t just nip at your nose—it bites and chews. The cows didn’t seem to mind too much. They moved slowly, mostly, like they knew there was no sense in rushing when you’ve got a thick hide and a mouthful of cud.

It was during one of our brief water breaks—standing near a sun-starved trough, boots frozen to the ground—that I saw him.

A coyote. Scrawny but determined.

He came trotting up like he didn’t see us at all or, more likely, didn’t care. We weren’t his concern. Thirst was.

He eyed the shallow trough, its surface crusted over with a thick pane of ice. Without hesitation, he started bouncing—front legs stiff, back legs springing like he was on a trampoline.

Up and down he went, landing smack in the middle of the ice. It cracked a little, but wouldn’t give. He paused, looked around, then gave it another go—bounce, bounce, crack!—until finally, with a sharp shatter, he broke through.

He lowered his head and drank fast, like he was afraid the water might disappear if he didn’t hurry. Then suddenly, he stopped.

I mean, he stopped—eyes wide like dinner plates, head tilted, whole body stiff. If you’ve ever had a Slurpee too fast on a hot day, you already know what happened next.

He tensed up, staggered a little, and then flopped over like someone had unplugged him. Just thunk—legs in the air, tail twitching.

Jim and I couldn’t help it—we both burst out laughing. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a wild animal suffer the same fate as a teenager with a Big Gulp.

After a few seconds, the coyote blinked, gave his head a mighty shake, and stood up. He looked around, probably hoping nobody saw.

I swear, if embarrassment could turn fur red, that critter would’ve been glowing. The youngster slunk off, a little wiser, maybe, or at least a little colder.

Jim wiped his eyes with his glove and said, “Well, that’s one way to learn patience.”

I nodded and replied, “Bet he’ll sip next time.”

We finished moving the herd, my toes were completely numb, and my cheeks burned from laughter. But that image of a brain-frozen coyote toppling over has stayed with me, a reminder that even in the wild, nature’s got a sense of humor—and sometimes, you gotta laugh, even if you’re freezing while doing it.