So what, then, are we to learn from nature? Real nature, I mean—not coyotes. Coyotes are, like, nature’s dogs. It’s like they’ve been domesticated by God, or something. They’re too confusing. Trying to learn a lesson about nature from coyotes would be like taking advanced calculus. Forget it. The kind of Nature Lesson I have in mind is something simple and easily digested. “The wonders of God’s glory are many,” for instance. “Through Nature God speaks to us in a language beyond language” is another good one.

Wait. That one’s really quite good, isn’t it?

I wonder if I could sell that to anybody? Who buys Wise Sayings?

But of course! Fortune cookie companies!

I have no idea how to get in touch with those guys, though. I’ve never really actually seen–or even heard of, come to think of it–a company where they write fortune-cookie fortunes. I wonder why?

I wonder if there’s, like, fortune-cookie fortune writing sweatshops somewhere, where people are all hunkered down at these long, rough hewn tables in these funky, dank warehouses, writing away, while cruel bosses pace behind them, hollering things like, “You call that a fortune? ‘A man and his pajamas are soon parted’?! What are you, trying to be funny?! That’s not a fortune! No lunch for you! C’mon, people! We need inspiring little nuggets here, compact, juicy bits of wisdom! Yesterday someone wrote, ‘You will soon be receiving your dinner bill’! I think you all remember what we did with that joker! Now get back to work!”

May God strike me dead right now if this isn’t true: One time a friend of mine got a fortune-cookie fortune that said: “Troubadour pants look great, and make your feet look big, too!”

It totally had that exclamation point at the end of it, too! Exactly as I typed it–with the commas! My friend opened his cookie, read that, and then, looking deeply tweaked, silently handed the little slip of paper to me. I had to read it about eight times before it even … registered.

I looked at my friend. He was looking at me. Finally, I articulated what was clearly the question that had riveted us both: “What in the heck are troubadour pants?”

Anyway, right. Lessons from nature.

I am totally going to get back to you on that.

Continuing on with why, even though they ate my cat, I still find it pretty hard not to admire the freakishly dog-like miniature coyotes that live in the canyon right behind my apartment:

They’re handsome. The coyotes that live in the canyon in my backyard are a far cry from the mangy, Overtly Craven-looking coyotes that I used to know when, for instance, I lived in the desert. (Don’t ask. No, wait: Do! But later.) Desert coyotes look like … well, coyote winos. With teeth. And really good vision. And a running speed that freaks out giant, huge-footed desert jackrabbits. A desert coyote isn’t even trying to act like it wouldn’t eat your arm if you’d just doze off for a second. But the coyotes in our canyon stand around looking like … butlers, or something—like Wall Street executives: They’re sleek, neat, and appear as groomed as any kennel club champion. They look exactly like compact, well-tended German Shepherds. Of course, these chic, urban dynamos subsist on a diet of premium cat food—that is, they eat premium cats. So. Unfair to judge them by their desert dwelling cousins, who subsist on road kill, old tires, and tumbleweeds.

They have strong family values.  You almost always see wileyus eaturcateous prowling about in a family unit: dad, mom, a couple of pups or teens. The parents are extremely diligent about teaching their young’uns all of their survival tricks. Ward Coyote, for instance, will say to his son, “Look, Beavoyte. See that guy there, on his patio? The one hurling fruit in our general direction? That fella couldn’t hit the ground with a bowling ball! Ha, ha! But seriously, son. Eventually he’ll run out of items to throw at us. Now it’s not a guarantee that he’s gonna’ get so insane he’ll eventually pick up his cat and throw that at us, but let’s give it a chance, shall we? C’mon. Sit right here, and just stare dead at him. Drives him nuts. This’ll be fun.” Stupid coyotes. They’re so … crafty.

They help people live right. Periodically, in the dead of night, every last coyote in our canyon starts in with a blood curdling, yipping-howling cacophony that would make every hair on the Werewolf’s head stand up even more than usual. I’ve been told they do this “after a kill,” but a maniacal taxidermist told me that, and I can’t really vouch for its veracity. What I do know is that coyotes’ ghastly, high-pitched gang-yowling, which you can hear from a mile away, triggers tears in children, identity crises in dogs, heart attacks in cats, and tends to overwhelm adults with inexplicable guilt. There’s nothing, but nothing, like waking up in the middle of the night to the spine-chilling, yelping frenzy of the Hounds of You-Know-Where to make a person swear on the spot to start living right. Priests and pastors should crank up a recording of the Coyote Death Wail outside their churches. Boost attendance, for sure.

Love ‘em; hate ‘em; fear ‘em; throw tangerines at ‘em—it doesn’t matter. In the end, canyon coyotes, just like about everything else in life, point straight to church. And thank God for that.

Okay, so about the coyotes that live in the canyon in my backyard. Even though they are shameless gobblers of perfectly good house cats, I would nonetheless hereby like to offer the following reasons to admire the San Diego Backyard Canyon Coyote (wileyus eaturcateous), gleaned from countless hours spent sitting on my porch watching nature’s widescreen TV.

They’re gutsy. A Tyronasauraous Rex couldn’t scare these coyotes. I see them all the time calmly patrolling around people’s backyards, like they’re the property owners, and people are just an inconvenience they put up with because it saves them the trouble of having to raise their own cats. They prowl around people’s homes, assessing possibilities, noting future potentials, testing door locks, peering in windows, making taunting faces at pet dogs. Kicking over lawn furniture. Hotwiring cars. It’s just wrong.

They’re as smart as dogs. Or as dumb, or something. But not long ago, I looked up from a book I was reading on our patio right into the eyes of a coyote sitting in the brambly dirt maybe 60 feet away from me. His ears were fully perked up, his black, unblinking eyes were staring right at me; clearly, he’d been sitting there wondering whether or not he could take me. Having just lost a cat to possibly that dastardly dingo, I looked around for something to hurl at him. Finding nothing, I dashed into our apartment and grabbed a few tangerines. Back outside, I respotted the coyote—who hadn’t moved an inch—wound up, and let fly a bullet of a tangerine that, unfortunately, sailed about four feet over Psycho Lassie’s head. But instead of responding with, “Whoa! That blind guy’s throwing fruit at me! I better get outta here!” the creature turned and leapt—arching, bounding leaps—in the precise direction the fruit had flown. Near the spot where the tangerine hit ground the animal then stopped, legs locked, and began rather wildly looking about himself. Finding nothing, he then spun and bounded right back to where he’d started. He sat, and began starting at me again—this time with what I couldn’t help but notice amounted to near-manic anticipation.

He wanted me to play fetch with him!

I was just … I couldn’t believe it. For one, talk about adding insult to injury. First he, or one of his pals, eats my cat–and then he wants me to entertain him?

Determined to restore order to universe clearly gone insane, I took dead aim at Rover of the Wild’s head, and let fly another tangerine. Boing! Off he bounced again toward my woefully errant projectile. Losing it again in the thick dry grass, in moments my new freak pet was back at his starting point, wide-eyed and practically praying I’d throw something else for him to chase.

I almost hit him with the next one. Maybe if I’d calmed down a moment before I threw it.

And, of course, off he shot, having the most fun he’d probably ever had in his life. When, tangerineless, he returned, eager for another go, I went back inside my apartment.

I’m still trying to figure out what exactly happened there. And until I do, I’m not leaving this apartment.

Tomorrow: Besides being nervy and disturbingly dog-like, our canyon coyotes are also handsome, have strong family values, and deeply encourage people to go to church. Seriously.

Okay, so last time I was telling you about Rocky the Spastic Squirrel and Jonathon Livingston Flintstone. And that made me want to tell you about these hyper-organized, mini-coyotes that my wife and I see all the time. Check this out: We live in an apartment in San Diego that’s so small our cockroaches are hunchbacked, right? That’s the bad news. The good is that connected to the back of our McUnit is a large deck that overlooks this huge, wild canyon. Many’s the time I’ve sat on my trusty lawn chair above this vast expanse of wilderness, and deeply reflected upon the wonder and joy of being able, via an electrical outlet out there, to keep a little refrigerator on my patio. It’s awesome, the hours I can kill out there whilst hardly moving at all.

What regularly feels like my private canyon has afforded me views of so many different kinds of wild creatures that I scoff at those who think the San Diego zoo might have anything new to show me. Sure, I haven’t seen anything with horns on it running around the canyon, but still. I’ve seen hawks a’plenty—which are pretty darn inspiring birds until they start popping the heads off pigeons like they’re opening soda bottles. I’ve seen the majestic owls, whose beautifully haunting “hoot! hoot!” in the enough to have you belting pillows around your head by about two in the morning.  I’ve seen the white-faced opossum, scurrying around like nature’s own Phantom of the Opera. I’ve seen snakes silently going about their business despite my screaming.  I’ve seen fat, sleek, disturbingly dexterous raccoons fastidiously picking through my garbage cans, unmistakably miffed at how many TV dinners I eat. I’ve seen the snuffling, oblivious skunk waddling about, its blatantly visible white tail mocking all would-be predators with noses. I’ve seen furry little foxes, looking so adorable you almost want to eat them.

And I’ve seen these coyotes I’m talking about actually eat those same cute foxes. Not pretty. Those stupid coyotes. They’ll eat anything. They ate our cat. They eat everybody’s cat. There isn’t a telephone pole within half a mile of our place that doesn’t have a message attached to it from someone new to the neighborhood wondering what happened to their cat. Anyone who’s lived here more than six months knows what happened to their cat. It became what ‘ere it ate: Cat chow.

Coyotes. They so … owe me a cat.

Still and all, it is difficult not to admire these crafty, carnivorous kings of the canyon. I know they couldn’t help but eat my beloved cat. What would I do if I was on my couch having a Blockbuster night, and a giant pizza waltzed into my apartment and flopped down next to me? I’d be licking my fingers before you could say, “Napkin, please.” It’s nature’s way. I know that. I’ve seen those ratings-grabbing National Geographics specials, “Insane Bloodthirsty Flesh Eaters of the Serengeti,” “Bambi Bleeds, Too,” and “Attack! When Sharks Get Confused.” I know the score. I understand the circle of life. Haven’t I witnessed my very own cats playing volleyball with a dead mouse? And haven’t I seen mice, in their turn, viciously nibbling cheese? And doesn’t cheese come from milk? And doesn’t milk come from cows? And isn’t a male cow a bull? And don’t bulls stampede through the streets of Pamplona every year in their crazed determination to decorate their horns with drunks dressed like revolutionary milkmen.

It’s all, I know, just the miraculous circle of life. And it’s why I, for one, take a bib with me wherever I go.

Anyway, about these coyotes.

Well. Next time.

The rest of the posts in this series about coyotes are, in order:

Wiley Coyotes: No Kidding

They Eat Cat’s, Don’t They?

Coyotes. Nature. Troubador Pants.