Home on the Range

Early Sunday morning. I tumble out of bed and head for the bathroom. The day looks great from the window. Lots of sunshine.
Hold on. What’s that down at the end of the road? Just a deer, a big one - not an unusual sight out here. But something is not right. He looks strangely awkward. His head is lowered – and he seems hurt.
“Merv, come and look. Look at that deer. No, further up. Way at the end of the road. What’s wrong with him?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. Wait. There’s something else.”
“I see them! Coyotes! He’s surrounded by coyotes!” They are exactly the same color as the field and very difficult to see from this distance.
“We need the binoculars” says Merv. He goes downstairs.
“There’s five of them” he says “they’re taking turns lunging at him. He’s putting his head down and kicking with his front leg. The coyotes are wary. Wounded or not, this guy must pack quite a punch when he connects.”
When I get the glasses, I’m stunned. “The deer looks hurt. It’s his hind leg. His leg is bleeding. Do you think the coyotes did that? Or are they after him because he’s been injured somehow?”

“Dunno. Let me see again.” He’s quiet as he looks through the glasses. “This is not good. He’s not going to win this one”.

“I can’t watch. He’s going to get mauled to death, and we’ll have to watch five coyotes tearing him apart”.
“What if I drive the truck down there” Merv says. “That should scare them away”.

I watch with the glasses, and the coyotes keep making staggered attacks, seem to know exactly what the other guy is doing. Don’t seem to notice the noisy opening of the garage door. But as the truck moves closer, heads start to turn, and finally every animal runs. The coyotes head across the hay field to the north. The deer runs with a limp in the opposite direction, up the hill and into the trees.

“I wonder how long they were attacking him” says Merv when he gets back. “The field looks as if it could have been quite awhile. He’s not moving very well, poor guy.”

The coyotes stay in the field! – sitting, standing, moving a bit here and there. It’s weird. Lots of coyotes cross our fields all the time. Usually alone, though. They may stop to dive for the odd mouse in the winter – stop to sniff at the scent of something in the wind. But that’s it. They always keep moving. What are they waiting for? How come they’re not heading in the direction of the deer?

We’re away for most of the afternoon, and don’t see them when we return.

A few days later I’m closing up the house to head for town. One of the dogs is sitting in the front yard. There’s something odd looking lying at her feet.
“What have you been into now, Tango?” I tease her.
As I get closer, I suddenly know instantly. It’s the leg of a deer.