New Eyes

(Stock shot, Shutterfly)

A coyote trotted by my kitchen window this morning. I didn’t notice at first; not til Chloe started barking and growling.

“Is that a dog or a coyote?” called Cal from the other room. I understood his confusion. It was clearly a coyote. But it wasn’t skinny or mangy or wild-looking. He looked rounded, glossy, well-fed. Like a household pet. Who ever heard of a chubby coyote?

This is my first coyote sighting. I know they are all over this land. You can hear them yip and howl at night, in packs it seems. The local NextDoor franchise is replete with warnings about them—I saw one in this location or that, so watch your pets. Vicki, who with Jim owns the house we are renting, tells a different story. Their two dogs, Kip and Gizmo, are small—each tops out at 15 pounds, max. Kip is a little dog with a big attitude. Gizmo is more frail, tentative, fearful. Vicki claims she came upon a pack of four coyotes menacing Gizmo one day, but that Kip waded in and whupped them all, rescuing Gizmo and saving the day.

Which is true? Dangerous wild animal that presents a threat to our 50-pound bruiser of a springer spaniel? Or scared, skittish wafflers—barking a big game but taking off at the first sign of opposition? Probably both. The contrast would fit this place, which in all ways seems to defy categorization.

The coyote stops, stock still, and we lock eyes. His glowing yellow orbs are watchful more than aggressive. He stares at me for a long moment, turns his head and sniffs the air, then trots off into the brush.

The Buddhists tell us to view every vista with new eyes. No matter how many times you have gazed upon something, try to look at it like you’ve never seen it before. This is hard to do. Our brains are not wired that way. It’s a good piece of evolutionary biology, actually. Something that has kept the species alive. When we see something new—especially if it represents a threat—it serves us well to take that information in, analyze it, catalogue it, and pull up that intelligence when we need it. It’s efficient, not having to do the mental calculations all over again. When it’s something dangerous, it’s more than efficient. It allows us to react fast, and it might just keep us alive.

I will no doubt see more coyotes. I will hear them in the night; that wild, mournful sound echoing across the desert. I will learn which course is best—aggressively guarding my dog from any encounter with them, or shrugging and letting her fend for herself. My brain will make that adaptation.