Run, Damn You, Run!

Standing at the end of the drive I could hear a coyote howling up on the top of the hill, and then I saw him up there. His head was pulled back and he was doing his best imitation of a wolf. Not impressed! I shouted over his howl, and then I saw his buddies. They had been creeping up around my right hoping to cut me off from help like some stray calf. 

Instinct tells you that you should run when you're getting cut off from help and that you should start screaming at the top of your lungs. But wolves, coyotes, wild dogs, and teenagers only see those acts as an invitation to violence. So I did the opposite and stopped completely. 

I kept my eyes on them as they moved about trying to get me in the center of their circle while I set my walking stick, point down, in the soft ground and pulled out my knife. The blade made a loud click as it flicked out and I adjusted it into my left hand while I pulled the stick out of the ground and walked towards the house. 

They weren't sure what to do with me since I wasn't acting like prey. My breathing was under control and I had managed to keep myself from trembling as their numbers continued going from the initial one, to four, to now six. If they came out of the field and tried to confront me this would turn from me showing them that I could take them to me trying - and I don't think I'll win that contest if it comes to it. 

The door was only five feet in front of me when the first one crossed the road ahead of me. I chucked the stick into his side and leapt onto the top doorstep as I heard the coyote give a satisfying yelp of pain.

I slammed the door behind me and sat down at the bar, with a noticeable tremble. "You okay," my lovely bride asked as she came into the kitchen, "you look like hell."

Yeah, I'm fine. Just ran across some wild dogs and had to slip back in here without letting them get me.