Coyotes Ate My Dog

I remember when we got the puppy. That must be one of my earliest memories, because I think I was only 2 years old at the time. I even remember the house we got him from, on the last curve as you head out of the Crooked Mile. I wanted to call him Trusty, after the hound dog in Lady and the Tramp, but the older siblings prevailed and his name became Tag-along. Tag for short. Tag was a smallish, curly, shaggy little beast, very much like Benji, from the movies, but gray instead of brown. Mom always described him as "half terrier, half cocker-poo." Dad always described him as a Muppet. Whatever you called him, he was the best friend a boy could have, and accompanied me on thousands of adventures in the woods and in the river. There is a LOT that I could say about this dog, but for now, I'll just tell you about the time the coyotes ate him - well, they chewed him up pretty good anyway. He lived.

I don't remember ever leaving him out at night intentionally. He had a wicker bed in the living room that he slept in every night. We called that his "basket." He was always free to come and go, no fence. And he always returned before bed time, scratching at the back door to let us know that he was waiting. One night, I guess, he didn't come back in. I don't know if we just didn't notice that he was missing or what. More likely we called for him and eventually gave up, figuring we'd find him on the porch the next morning. Well that was exactly what happened, but not quite like we expected.

Summer nights the windows were always open. I loved the sound of the river outside. Sometimes you could hear coyotes yapping in the field across the creek. I never gave them much of a thought. I have a vague memory of a vague impression that I had in my head. Something about a circle of wild dogs, running in circles in the middle of the field. Eyes glowing. Always circling. Doing something primal. They sound like a tribe of wild savages dancing a war dance around a fire. Chanting, yapping. Celebrating some kill or ancient pre-battle ritual.

I remember hearing them that night, but I don't remember giving it much thought. When I think back to hearing their cries that night, knowing now what was going on, it makes me sick. I can picture it happening. I heard it.

The next morning, dad reports opening the door to call for the dog. He always did this classic dog whistle at the back door. And Tag usually came running, if he wasn't there already. Dad whistled and waited. Whistled again. Then noticed something at his feet. There was Tag, ripped to shreds, limp like a wet rag, lying at the back door. Dad says that Tag lifted his head, but didn't get up.

We put him in a box and dad drove him to the vet.

I have to admit, I don't remember all the details of his injuries. I know for sure there was at least one broken leg. They had to put a steel pin in it. When I think about what must have happened for his little leg to break as a result... it kills me. There were other injuries, something internal. But the leg was what I remember most. The broken leg and lots of bites. They said he almost died.

Tag got all fixed up and the bill came to $300. Mom had sold our antique dining room table the day before, for $300. She said that's proof positive that God provides. Maybe so.


Here's the mutt in question. That's me holding his neck.