The Case of the Coyote Invasion

by John R. Erickson

There it is. Ranch dogs get paid for guarding the chickens, but we live in a constant state of torment because . . . WE WANT TO EAT THEM!! Did you happen to notice all those “slurps” that have been creeping into my conversations? Well, they didn’t get there by accident. They popped up because . . . this is very difficult . . . because the word “chicken” causes my mouth to water!

  Why? I don’t know. It’s not my idea. I don’t want to go around thinking about chicken dinners. I have a respectable job. I want to be a good dog. It just happens. And there’s more. If you want to get a dog seriously stirred up, all you have to do is say, “Chicken, git the chicken, git the chicken chicken!” That will push him over the edge and turn him into a raving lunatic.

  There it is, the Ugly Truth. After listening to the cannibals for two minutes, I had gone over the edge—not sliding over the edge but crashing, head over heels, down into the darkness where ranch dogs should never go.

  I told you that you’d be disappointed. Sorry. I tried to avoid this, I didn’t want to reveal it, but . . . let’s get on with it.

  Something snapped inside my mind. Water poured through my mouth like a raging river. My eyeballs turned in circles, and I heard thirteen cuckoo clocks going off inside my head: “Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!”

  Before I knew what was happening, I let out a blood-chilling howl, leaped out from behind the cedar trees, and yelled, “Wait for me, I want to join up!” I went tearing down the embankment and joined the circle of cannibals.

  They were . . . well, pretty shocked to see me. Very shocked. The music (or whatever it was) stopped. The dancing and yelling stopped, and seven pairs of yellow coyote eyes turned to me as I cried out, “Hey guys, in my secret heart, I’ve always wanted to be a cannibal and here I am!”

  I had hoped they might . . . well, burst into a chorus of cheers or at least applaud. They didn’t. This should have served as a warning, but I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. See, once you get chicken in your head, common sense packs its bags and moves out.

  The coyotes exchanged puzzled glances, then Snort stepped forward. “That you, Hunk? Same ranch dog we know before?”

  “That’s right, pal, only things are different now. I quit my job, see. I’m just one of the boys.”

  “Hunk not guard ranch no more? Not protecting chicken house?”

  “No sir. I heard your song and, well, it has changed my life. I’m ready to join up. What a deal, huh? You bet. So . . . well, let’s go get a chicken dinner. What are we waiting for?”

  Nobody moved and all eyes turned in the same direction, toward . . . yipes! You know, in all the excitement, I had almost forgotten how big and ugly Scraunch was, but now it all came crashing back like two hundred plates hitting a cement floor.

  The guy was HUGE, a full head taller than the other coyotes. He had scars on his face and notches bitten out of his ears, long gleaming teeth, and a pair of red-rimmed eyes that could scorch the bark off a tree.

  He stepped out of the circle and came toward me. Thump, thump, thump. The others shrank back and cleared a path for him. There wasn’t a sound to be heard . . . actually, there were several sounds: his footsteps and my knees knocking together.

  Gulp. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea.

  He walked a circle around me, sizing me up. He stopped and fixed me in the blaze of his unblinking yellow eyes. Then in a menacing growl, he said, “Hunk berry foolish for leave house and boom-boom.”

  I struggled to find my voice. “Yes, well, it was kind of a sudden impulse. See, I came out here to spy on you guys, but then I heard your song and all at once I thought, gee, wouldn’t it be fun to be a coyote! No job or responsibilities, sleep all day then go out and bump off a few chickens. Hey, what a life! Anyway, here I am, ready or not. Ha ha.”

  No one laughed or even smiled. They just stared.

  I felt the need to keep talking. “See, ranch dogs aren’t allowed to eat chickens, but if I join up with you guys . . .”

  Scraunch held up his paw for silence. “Hunk shut trap.”

  “Shut my trap? Well, I guess I could, but let me hasten to point out . . .”

  He clamped my jaws shut and turned to the other coyotes. “Coyote Brotherhood hold big vote on whichsomever to eat, chickens or ranch dog!”

  What! A vote on whether to eat chickens or me? Hey, I’d just gotten there. What kind of deal was this? I tried to express my opinions on this, but Scraunch had a pretty good grip on my muzzle, and all I could say was, “Mum mum mutt mutter.”

  Scraunch continued. “Whosomever wanting to eat chicken, raise right paw!” The coyotes glanced around. No one raised a paw and, well, that made me uneasy. But then Snort raised his left paw (he’d always had trouble with left and right, if you recall) and one by one, the others did the same, until all six of them were holding up their left paws.

  Good! They had all voted not to eat me.

  Scraunch released his grip on my face and started counting the votes. “One. Four. Tuesday-three. Drop paws!” The coyotes lowered their paws. “Now, whosomever wanting to eat ranch dog, raise right foot!”

  Scraunch was the only one who lifted his paw.

  Whew! Boy, I’d been pretty worried there for a minute. I mean, you never know how an election’s going to turn out. Just when you think you’re doing well in the polls, you get a nasty surprise. Voters are friggle.

  Voters are frugal.

  Voters are sniggle.

  You know, there’s a word that describes the nature of voters, suggesting that they often change their minds at the last moment. It’s the perfect word for this situation, but I can’t remember it.

  Voters are frickle . . . freckle . . . speckled . . .

  Wait. Voters are FICKLE, there we go. See, it was the perfect word. Voters are fickle, and you can never be sure until the last moment which way the election is going to turn, and this is especially true in coyote elections. I mean, those guys are . . . well, they’re dumber than dirt, might as well go right to the point, so you never know.

  But it appeared that I had won the election and figured it was time for me to, well, deliver a speech.

  I faced the electorate with a broad smile. “Guys, this is a great day for me. As a pup, I always dreamed of running away from home and becoming a cannibal. There’s just something about your way of life that strikes a chord in the mind of an impressionable young dog. You’re probably wondering what it is.”

  They just sat there, staring at me with empty eyes. No smiles, no frowns, no expression at all. It almost made me think that . . . well, they weren’t interested in my speech, but who could believe that? I mean, this was a very special moment, and I had an important message to share with them.

  I plunged on with the speech. “You know what it is? I’ll tell you. The part of your culture that appeals to young dogs all over the world is . . . you’re totally worthless. I mean, what a great life you have out here in the wilderness! You’re all bums! You never work or contribute anything to the good of the world. You sleep all day, get up at sundown, howl at the moon, scratch a few fleas, then go out, get sprayed by skunks, fight badgers, beat up bobcats . . .

  “Fellers, you have set the standard for young dogs all over the world. Your singing is legendary, and I don’t need to tell you that your Chicken Chant is one of the most moving pieces I’ve ever heard. Before I got here, I was a normal dog. Now . . . I stand before you, a changed dog, a chicken maniac to the core. What a great influence you’re having in this world!”

  I filled my tanks with air and moved on to the conclusion of my speech. “Gentlemen, friends, distinguished guests . . . I want to thank you for your vote of confidence. For years, you’ve been an inspiration to dogs all over Texas. Tomorrow and next week and next month, when I meet a young dog who has dreams of being a bum, I’ll tell him to study the example of our coyote brothers who have raised bumhood to a science. I’ll tell hi
m . . .”

  All at once, I noticed my audience had . . . well, they appeared to have fallen asleep. I mean, they were slumped against each other like sacks of feed, snoring, wheezing, flapping their lips. Gee, I had gotten so carried away with my speech, I hadn’t noticed. Maybe I needed to raise my voice, but before I could continue, Scraunch tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned and saw that he had brought a paw to his lips, and he said, “Shhhh.” Then he faced the unconscious brotherhood and yelled, “Hey!” Six sleeping cannibals flinched and opened their eyes.

  Snort glanced around and leaped to his feet. “Snort change vote. Never mind chicken. Eat dog!”

  The others grumbled, exchanged glances, and nodded their heads. I was stunned and turned to Snort. “Hey, you can’t do that! I won the election, fair and square.”

  Snort nodded. “Hunk talk too much, put coyotes to sleep with yap-yap. Coyotes eat Hunk to shut him up!”

  “Snort, you cast your vote. If you change it now . . . well, that would be cheating.” I whirled around to Scraunch. “Scraunch, they’re trying to steal the election!”

  I said this, hoping to shame them. Well, that flopped. All seven coyotes roared with wicked laughter, and Scraunch whopped me on the back. “Ha! Coyote cheat all the time, love to cheat even moresomever than eat chicken. Ho ho!”

  “Yes, but . . . Scraunch, this is an outrage. I just delivered a very emotional speech that paid tribute to Cannibal Culture. Okay, maybe it went a little too long, but would you actually eat me for that?”

  I held my breath and waited for his answer. Scraunch nodded. Snort nodded. His brother Rip nodded. All of them nodded.

  Gulp.

  Fellers, it appeared that I had walked into a bear trap and had gotten myself into the kind of mess that has no happy ending.

  Chapter Eleven: Thrown in a Coyote Dungeon

  Well, when a brave ranch dog finds himself in an unsniggable situation, he has only two options: fight or run. Naturally, my first thought was to go down swinging.

  But then I took a closer look at Scraunch, that oak tree of pure meanness towering over me, staring at me with terrible eyes, grinning, and licking his chops . . . and, well, that sort of narrowed my options down to one. I would have to rely on my amazing speed, go to Full Turbos, and race the entire coyote nation back to the ranch.

  Just as I was reaching for the throttle, I felt myself being jerked off the ground and hoisted up on the shoulders of several muscular cannibals, who seemed to be pretty serious about kidnapping me and carrying me back to the coyote village—where, I surmised, they planned to eat me for supper.

  I tried to register a protest. “Scraunch, this is an outrage! I demand a hearing. Dogs have rights, too!”

  This brought forth a chorus of rowdy laughter, hoots, snickers, and other sounds of mockery. I tried another approach.

  “Snort, think of all the good times we’ve had. Remember the day we rolled on the dead skunk and sang ‘Rotten Meat’? Remember that? Those were happy times, Snort. Don’t throw them all away.”

  More irreverent laughter.

  “Okay, we’re getting down to the bottom of the list. Let’s talk about the Brotherhood of All Animals. You know, we’re very similar, dogs and coyotes. Think about it, guys: four paws, one tail, two ears, two eyes, hairy legs. We’re pretty close to the same, and it’s even been said that we’re kinfolks. I’m sure you’ll agree that it would be terrible manners to eat your kinfolks, right? Talk to me, guys.”

  “Hunk shut trap!”

  “All right, let’s try a different approach.”

  “Hunk shut trap!

  Well, that kind of killed the conversation. When they keep telling you to shut your trap, you begin to think that nobody is listening. There was nothing left for me to do but sit back and enjoy the ride, only I didn’t enjoy the ride. Who can enjoy a ride that’s taking him to a village full of cannibals? Yikes.

  We got there a lot sooner than I wished. The coyote village was located up in one of those deep dark canyons. There wasn’t much to the village, just holes in the ground, caves in the canyon wall, and a bunch of bleached bones spread out over half an acre.

  You talk about something that will shake your confidence. Try half an acre of bleached bones.

  As we tramped into the village, other coyotes came pouring out of holes and caves, yelling and cheering. One of the first to reach us was an old, shriveled, moth-eaten coyote who walked with a limp . . . or maybe two limps. He was pretty crippled up, and I knew the guy. It was Chief Many Rabbit Gut Eat In Full Moon, the father of Scraunch and Missy.

  I’d met him before on another occasion and he’d seemed pretty friendly . . . in a creepy cannibal sort of way, of course. I’d gotten the feeling that he liked me and that we could talk, man to man.

  He rushed up and gave me a big smile. “Aha, ranch dog come back to coyote billage!”

  “Hi, Chief, great to see you again. Listen, you need to talk to your men. We’ve had a little misunderstanding. See, I came to join up and, you know, poach a chicken or two. I think I could make a contribution, no kidding.”

  The old man nodded and widened his grin. “Hunk make big contribution. Hunk make supper, oh boy!”

  Well, there went another idea down in flames, and I didn’t have many ideas left . . . only one. I ran my eyes over the crowd, hoping to find Missy Coyote. Remember Missy? She had helped me escape her bloodthirsty relatives on several occasions, and I felt pretty confident that she would save me one more time. Good old Missy!

  I searched the crowd . . . and my heart began to sink. She wasn’t there! Gulp. Missy had been my last hope and now . . .

  Gulp.

  The whole population of the village seemed excited to see me, but I knew it had nothing to do with my charm, personality, good looks, or winning smile. No, they celebrated my coming for all the wrong reasons, and it certainly appeared that my time was running out.

  Scraunch and his friends tossed me into a cave in the canyon wall. It was a kind of waiting room where they left their supper guests while the village began the evening’s celebrations. I hoped they might forget to post a guard, but they didn’t. They left a big stone-faced ruffian to guard the entrance. I’d heard one of the coyotes call his name: Smash.

  I paced around my cell for several minutes, hoping I might find a window, a crack, secret passageway, any weakness that might allow me to escape. No luck there, so I sat down and spent another several minutes studying the profile of my guard.

  He had an unusual head, larger than the head of a normal coyote and not as pointed on the ears and nose. His body seemed heavier too, and his feet were huge, not the usual coyote paw that left a narrow track.

  I thought about trying to strike up a conversation with him—I mean, what else did I have to do?—but he didn’t look very friendly and, well, who wants to chat with a guy named Smash?

  So I just sat there, listening to the hoots and shouts of the cannibals, and thinking that my luck had pretty muchly run out. Then, to my surprise, I heard him say, “You know, buddy, what you did was really stupid.”

  I glanced around, thinking he might be speaking to someone else. I saw only the two of us. “Were you talking to me?”

  He turned and glared at me. “I’m talking to you, yeah. Stupid behavior makes me angry.” He stood up and paced toward me. “What did you expect to gain, quitting your ranch? One chicken dinner and then what?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Dumb, so dumb! You had a good job, a home, people who cared about you. You had it made, and you threw it all away.”

  “Look, I was all right until I heard their Chicken Chant and somehow . . . okay, it was the dumbest stunt I’ve ever pulled. I don’t know how it happened.”

  He poked me in the chest with his paw. “I know how it happened. I know exactly how it happened, ’cause I did it, too.”


  “You?” I looked closer at his unusual head and body shape. “Wait! You’re not a coyote, you’re a dog!”

  “That’s right. I know your story ’cause it’s my story.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  He shrugged. “Stupid, like you. I had a great life, but was that enough? Naw. I wanted more. Fun, excitement, danger. I ran away from home and joined up with the coyotes, helped ’em raid chicken houses.”

  He began pacing a circle around me. “Oh, I was hot stuff! The coyotes didn’t mess with me because, well, I had skills.” He held up a huge paw and admired it, then brought it down like a hammer on a rock, breaking it into pieces. He grinned. “That’s why they call me Smash.” His smile faded. “It all started with one chicken dinner. It ruined my life. But the crazy thing is . . . I can’t stand the taste of chicken anymore. It tastes like tuna fish.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah. Ain’t that a kick in the head?” He heaved a sigh. “What a waste. My poor mother cries herself to sleep every night, wondering where she went wrong. But it wasn’t her fault. It was all me.” His eyes stabbed me. “And look at you! Wouldn’t your mother be ashamed if she could see you now?”

  My head sank. “Yes, she would.”

  There was a moment of silence, then the silence was filled by the sounds of coyotes chanting in the distance. The words sent shivers down my spine.

  Doggie, git the doggie, git the doggie doggie!

  Doggie, git the doggie, git the doggie doggie!

  Yum yum, eat ’em up, eat ’em up!

  Yum yum, eat ’em up, eat ’em up!

  Smash’s eyes were boring holes in me. “You hear that?”

  “I hear it, yes.”

  “They ain’t kidding.” He lumbered over to me. “What are you going to do, sit here like a rabbit and let ’em eat you?”

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  He stuck his nose in my face and roared, “Break out, you bonehead! Run away, escape!”

  “But you’re guarding the door.”