by Bobbie Pyron
“Get it!”
“Leave it alone!”
“Call the police!”
An onion bounced off the young coyote’s tawny side. Trouble bolted through the crowd and tore across the square and out into the street.
Mischief lifted into the sky and followed.
The crow watched the pup race into the road. Horns blew; a taxi swerved to miss the coyote and slammed into another taxi.
“Oh ho,” Mischief cawed with delight.
He followed the coyote as it raced in a panic one way and then another, until it ducked into a dark side street.
When the coyote pulled the trash can over, Mischief knew exactly what would come next.
“You have a lot to learn,” the crow called to the coyote as it raced down the sidewalk, Mischief following overhead.
9
Around the Next Corner
Trouble panted from beneath the cover of low bushes lining the front of yet another of the towering stone places that smelled of Makers.
He knew he should return to the place where he had left the Beast and sneak back inside. He lifted his nose and sniffed. Yes, he was pretty sure he knew the way. That would be the sensible thing to do.
On the other hand, morning sunlight was just now creeping above the tops of the stone spires. The day was young. Surely he could explore just a little farther. After all, the Maker wouldn’t leave for home until the sun was low.
Trouble crept from beneath the bushes. He looked right, then looked left. The path was empty.
He breathed a sigh of relief and shook the worry from his coat. “I’ll just see what’s around the next bend,” he said to no one in particular, and trotted off down the street and around the corner.
And the next one, and the next. Here, on the side of a metal box, the smell of an old male dog; there the sound of something sweet and high like the voice of his sister Star. A gentle gust of wind brought the ancient smell of fish and salt water.
A stronger gust blew a newspaper down the sidewalk. Trouble crouched, then pounced. The wind tore the paper from beneath his paws. With a gleeful yip, Trouble chased the newspaper down the street and around yet another corner until . . .
The wide pathways became busier. Trouble abandoned his chase and took in his surroundings. Nothing smelled familiar. A fine grit filled his delicate nose. He sneezed, then tipped his head back and back as he looked up at the canyons and forests of stone surrounding him. Spires many times taller than the tallest tree he had ever seen seemed to press down on him, surround him. His heart raced. The young coyote cowered and trembled from the inescapable truth. “I am so lost,” he whimpered.
10
A Bird’s-Eye View
Mischief kept an eye on the coyote as he explored the city. The crow had hoped to see more entertaining encounters between the coyote and the humans, but so far things had been pretty dull.
Mischief followed overhead. Humans peddled past on bicycles, rode by in taxicabs, even ran along on their two legs, and never once did they notice the coyote loping along the sidewalk. It never ceased to amaze the crow how little humans saw.
“Time to stir things up,” the crow chortled.
He swooped down and pecked the coyote on the head.
“Ow!” Trouble yipped. He swerved and raced down the sidewalk.
“Hee!” Mischief crowed. He dived down again and plucked a bill full of fur from Trouble’s tail.
Trouble tucked his tail between his legs and looked for someplace, any place, to get away from this menace in the sky.
Whoosh! To Trouble’s utter astonishment, an opening appeared in the smooth stone wall he’d been running beside.
Before the crow had a chance to peck him again, the coyote veered through the doorway and into the biggest den he had ever seen. His feet skidded and slipped on a floor as smooth and shiny as water.
“Can I help—” a voice said, then “Eeeeeek!”
Trouble froze at the sound of the screaming Maker. He pressed his belly against the cold floor and waited for whatever would happen next.
Whoosh!
The security guard, who always claimed nothing interesting ever happened in a life insurance building, strolled through the automatic doors, bearing a tray of coffee.
Caw! Caw!
Mischief flew past the guard and made straight for Trouble.
The receptionist, Molly Valentine, who secretly wrote TV scripts at work precisely because nothing interesting ever happened in a life insurance building, screamed at the sight of the coyote and crow.
“Help!” she cried. “Help!”
The guard dropped the tray of hot coffee.
Mischief dive-bombed the coyote.
Trouble scrambled to his feet and skittered across the shiny floor, barely keeping his paws beneath him, desperately looking for any escape from the horrid bird and the screaming Maker.
“Stop!” ordered the guard. “Stop this instant!”
Ding!
Mischief flew around to the side of the confused coyote and gave him a good peck on the ear.
“Yow!” Trouble bolted away from the crow and right into the waiting elevator.
With Mischief’s final, gleeful peck at the bright red button, the elevator doors closed.
11
Officer Vetch
The calls started coming in to New York City Animal Control and Welfare early that morning.
The first call came from a produce truck driver over on 154th Street claiming a coyote had stowed away in her truck.
“Highly unlikely,” Officer Vetch snorted.
The owner of a diner three blocks east of 154th Street called next. He said a coyote had raided his garbage cans. “And made a right mess of things too,” he added.
“Doubtful,” Officer Vetch proclaimed.
And then, at 10:03, came the call from Long Life Security Insurance by the security guard, one Timothy Buckle. “There’s a coyote in our elevator!”
“Hmmm . . . ,” Officer Vetch mused. “Lock down the building,” he barked into the phone. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Some people might think a coyote in an elevator was the most improbable, preposterous, outrageous report an animal control officer could receive. But to Officer Vetch, this seemed like just the kind of thing a coyote in the city would do.
Trouble turned one way and then another in the small, shining den. His reflection rippled like it had in a pool at the bottom of Singing Creek. He glanced up. There was no sky, no canopy of leaves or clouds. Then again, there wasn’t that annoying bird either, or the sound of the screeching female Maker.
Trouble investigated the peculiar space. Overlapping scents of Makers—salty smells, sweet smells, the scent of anxiety, the scent of excitement, the scent of boredom—filled the tiny den.
And there, just there, the aroma of food. He was so, so hungry! He licked the bagel crumbs from the carpeted floor. Licking the carpet made him thirsty. Food and water were what he needed.
He looked for the door through which he’d come. It was gone. He searched the corners for it, but they were as solid as stone. He pawed at what he thought had been the entrance to the den, but it was solid too. Trouble dug frantically at the carpeted floor. Once he’d found himself shut inside the Maker’s shed back at the farm when he’d been investigating a sack of chicken feed. Digging out under the door to the shed had taken some time and effort, but he’d been home for dinner.
This time, though, no matter how hard he dug, he could not get out. He was trapped.
Trouble huddled in the corner of the elevator and panted with anxiety.
As promised, Officer Vetch arrived outside the Long Life Security Insurance building ten minutes later. He double-parked his truck and left blue and red lights flashing.
Mischief watched from the chandelier high above as the man strode purposefully into the lobby.
“Officer Ambrose Vetch,” he said to the security guard, “from New York City Animal Control and Welfare.”
“Is the alleged coyote still in the elevator?” Officer Vetch asked, clutching the catch pole.
The security guard motioned him over to the reception desk. “Come see for yourself,” he said. “We have a security camera in the elevator.”
The guard poked at the keyboard with one finger. Slowly, the camera inside the elevator panned to the left.
Officer Vetch held his breath.
“There,” the guard said, jabbing at the screen.
Sure enough, huddled in the corner, eyes glazed with terror, big ears pinned flat against its head, long pointy snout twitching was, without a doubt, a coyote.
“Here’s the plan, Buckle,” Officer Vetch said. “We’ll lock the front doors.
“Then,” Vetch continued, “when I give you the signal, unlock the elevator. I’ll open the doors, and, before the coyote knows what it’s about, I’ll get him in my noose.”
Molly Valentine frowned. “You’re not going to kill it, are you?” She eyed the gun in his holster.
Vetch strode over to the elevator. “Oh no,” he called across the lobby. “The zoo will be very happy to add him to their collection.”
Trouble, who had gone into a panic-induced trance, jumped at the sound of a Maker’s voice. He shot straight up in the air, bouncing from one side of the elevator to the other.
Ding!
The elevator lurched beneath Trouble’s feet. He felt the den rising and rising.
Officer Vetch watched in disbelief as the elevator rose up to the first floor, then the second, then the third, then the fourth.
“What’s happened?” he roared.
He dropped his pole and raced over to the desk where Timothy Buckle and Molly Valentine stared at the monitor with wide eyes.
“He, he must have accidentally pushed the buttons inside the elevator,” Molly Valentine stammered.
“Well, do something,” Vetch commanded. “Bring him down.”
The crow had already beaten him to it.
As soon as Mischief saw Officer Vetch drop the catch pole, he knew this was his chance.
While the humans stared at the monitor, the crow flew down from the chandelier. Using his sharp black bill, he pecked at the elevator’s Down button.
Ding! Ding!
Officer Vetch, Timothy Buckle, and Molly Valentine turned toward the sound.
The elevator door slid open.
The terrified (and somewhat nauseated) coyote took one wobbly step out.
The security guard whimpered.
Molly Valentine’s mouth formed a small O.
Vetch eyed the distance between himself and the catch pole.
“Run!” the crow screamed.
Just for the briefest moment, Trouble and Officer Vetch locked eyes. In the coyote’s eyes, the Maker saw the unknowable wild; in the Maker’s eyes, the coyote saw the hunter, locked on his prey. Trouble had seen those same eyes when he had been hunted from above by the eagle. But this time, his father was not here to save him.
Trouble bolted from the elevator; Officer Vetch lunged for his catch pole.
Let it be noted that a tray full of coffee spilled on a marble floor creates a very slippery situation.
Vetch’s feet flew out from under him. He landed on his back with a loud “Oof!”
Timothy Buckle, who before this morning had been quite convinced nothing interesting ever happened in a life insurance building, attempted to pull his nightstick from his holster as Trouble careened by.
Molly Valentine screamed.
Mischief dive-bombed the security guard.
The last thing Officer Vetch saw as he pulled himself to his feet was a great, bushy tail with a black tip streaming out the front doors and, curiously, a crow right behind.
12
What’s in a Name
Trouble ran as fast as he had ever run, away from the horror of the elevator and the Long Life Security Insurance building.
A siren wailed in the distance. A sudden, fierce longing for his family washed over the young coyote.
“I want to go home,” he whimpered.
The hot pavement burned Trouble’s pads. He felt thirstier than he could ever remember feeling. He loped along, his long tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to plunge his whole body into the shaded pools at the bottom of Singing Creek. What he wouldn’t give for the cool, soft grass of the meadow.
And then, as if an especially curious, overly troublesome coyote’s wishes had come true, Trouble smelled water. He followed his long, pointy nose down one street, up an avenue, and across a courtyard.
There he saw it, shining and splashing in all its glory: a waterfall! An odd waterfall, in an upside-down kind of way, but that didn’t matter to Trouble. It was wet and it was cool.
Pressing his body into the shadows, Trouble crept toward the fountain. Mischief landed on a utility pole. He looked up the street one way and down the other.
“Okay,” he called. “The coast is clear.”
Trouble was so hot and so thirsty, he didn’t stop to wonder if the crow was pulling yet another one of his pranks. Instead, he leaped into the fountain. He splashed and yipped and let the falling water spill into his open mouth.
He could have stayed in that cool water all day.
Mischief glided down from the utility pole and landed silently on the edge of the fountain. With a gleam in his eye, he scooped up a bill full of water and splashed Trouble right in the face.
“Hey!” the coyote yipped. “I was relaxing!”
“Not anymore,” Mischief chortled, and churned the water with his wings.
“Ha,” Trouble yipped. “Two can play this game.” He used his long snout like a shovel and flung water on the bird.
Mischief cawed with delight. He plopped into the fountain and flailed the coyote with water and wings. Trouble slapped the water with his front paws like Twist had taught him, creating a tsunami in the small fountain.
Someone laughed.
Coyote and crow froze.
A female Maker stood just feet from the fountain, grinning.
Suddenly, Trouble noticed many, many Makers streaming from the tall, shiny caves surrounding the fountain. Most trotted surprisingly fast on their two legs, holding something to their ears; others walked with heads down, looking intently at a small something held in their hands. None of these Makers saw the crow and the coyote in the fountain.
Except this one.
She laughed again. “A dog and a bird playing together in the fountain. How adorable.”
She set her lunch bag on the ground and fished around in her purse. “I just have to get a picture of you two,” she said.
Trouble slunk from the fountain and scurried behind a thick screen of bamboo.
Mischief, never one to miss an opportunity for a free meal and a chance to be annoying, launched himself from the fountain straight to the woman’s lunch bag and snatched it up.
“Hey!” the woman cried. “That’s my lunch!”
“Was,” Mischief cawed from the top of the pole. He lifted up in the air, bag swinging from his bill, and flew off.
He swooped low over the coyote and cruised around the back of the building. Trouble followed the delicious scent of food.
By the time Trouble found him, the crow had ripped the bag apart and was cataloging its contents: ham and cheese sandwich, carrot sticks, potato chips, and blueberry muffin. “Not bad,” Mischief said.
He heard a groan. He looked up from his bounty into the hungry eyes of Trouble.
“I am so, so hungry,” Trouble whimpered.
Mischief had not shared a single, solitary thing since he’d left the nest. As far as he was concerned, in the city it was every critter for himself.
But something pricked the crow’s mind; something even deeper stirred his black crow heart.
“Oh, what the heck,” he said.
He flung
the baggie containing the sandwich to the ground and, in an astonishing display of selflessness, the muffin too.
Trouble pounced on the sandwich and muffin and gulped them down, plastic baggies and all.
“Oh, kid,” the crow said, “you’re going to regret that later.”
But Trouble didn’t hear the crow. The food had taken the edge off the gnawing hunger in his belly. Now, what he wanted more than anything else was to take a nap.
He curled up in a cool, dark corner on a side street.
The crow fluttered down to the pavement and walked over to the coyote.
“What’s your name?” Mischief asked.
Trouble regarded the crow. Finally, he said, “My parents call me Trouble.”
Mischief couldn’t help himself. He chirped. He chortled. Then he cackled. “Trouble? Your parents named you Trouble? Perfect!” he crowed.
Trouble had half a mind to bite the annoying bird, but he was too tired. Instead, he asked, “Well, what’s your name?”
“My mother called me Gregor the Mischief Maker,” the crow said, “but everyone just calls me Mischief.”
“Ha!” Trouble barked. “Talk about the perfect name, you’re nothing but mischief.”
“Yeah,” Mischief said, with just a tinge of longing, “that’s what my mother said.”
The image of his own mother filled Trouble’s mind and his heart. Oh, she must be so worried about him!
“Just a little rest,” he mumbled. “Just a little rest and then I’ll find my way back to the Beast. I’ll even be home in time for supper.”
And with that the coyote tucked his nose under his tail, closed his eyes, and slept.
13
Amelia and Rosebud
It’s not true the City never sleeps.
In the small, quiet hours of the night, bankers slept. Bartenders slept. Café workers slept, and dog walkers slept. Even delivery truck drivers slept.
A poet and her dog slept, dancers slept, mothers and fathers and their children slept.