It’s half past six in the morning, and I’ve just woken up to take Pedro outside for his morning business. The sky is still dark, and the brightly shining stars are visible. Nearby, a large pack of coyotes is howling and making strange squealing noises. McCall is beautiful, but wild, in the mountainous North country of Idaho. 

This land all used to belong to the Shoshone, Bannock, Blackfoot, and Nez Perce tribes. Now, the area is dotted with million-dollar mansions and luxury cabins. An exclusive golf course winds around lavish homes, alongside towering ancient spruces and ancestor pines. 

I am barefoot in my pajamas, standing on the cold concrete patio of my client’s cabin. I’ve come up for the weekend to host a private medicine ceremony for her. A few minutes pass, and I see Pedro in the grass, and tell him to come inside. He looks at me, then turns away and saunters the other direction. Dammit! Doesn’t he hear the coyotes howling madly out here? 

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Coyote is known as the trickster in Native American tradition, although each tribe or nation has different stories and teachings. Sometimes, he is a hero, bringing food or medicines, and sometimes he gets into trouble from his cunning, curious, or mischievous ways. Always, the teachings have a moral, usually alluding to how foolishness, arrogance, and ignorance leads to mishaps, and often reminding us to be careful, mindful, deliberate, and patient.

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“Come on Pedro!” I plead in a whisper-shout, not wanting to wake up my still sleeping client. But he is now conveniently pretending he can’t hear me. I slap my leg repeatedly. I stamp my cold, bare foot for emphasis. I plead  some more. All to no avail. He has figured out that I don’t want to walk into the crunchy, frost covered grass in my bare feet and has seized the moment. He arrogantly turns and heads around the bend of the cabin where I can’t see him. 

Now, I’m pissed. I stamp indignantly onto the crunchy, cold grass anyway and go after him. He bolts. I chase after him, whisper-shouting louder now. “Come back here, you little fucker!” He can hear the anger in my voice and now knows he’s in trouble. Parts of the ground are soaking wet and others are icy cold. I am speed walking in circles around this massive cabin with my phone’s weak flashlight, trying to catch him, but he keeps evading me. 

Frustrated, I go inside and find my boots, sliding my cold, wet bare feet into them. I march outside again looking for him, but he’s disappeared. I walk laps, listening to the coyotes and scanning the darkness with my phone. I can still hear their eerie howling, but they seem farther away now, thank God. He’d be a delicious little snack for them. But I know that coyotes aren’t the only animals that would eat him for breakfast. There are foxes out here too.

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In some stories, Coyote’s brother Fox comes to save him from his mischief. Fox brings him back to life after he stupidly gets killed, or helps him out of a bad situation. Usually, this situation could have been prevented, but misfortune follows Coyote wherever he goes. Luckily for him, he has the favor of Great Creator, who always sends a helping spirit to his aid. 

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Finally, I give up chasing and stand on the porch, waiting. Pedro’s pulled this escape artist BS before, and he always comes back. Sure enough, after a few minutes, that little bastard comes slouching up to the patio. I seize the moment and try to pounce on him, but he’s too quick and evades me again. Now I start running, full speed after him. My braless top half is in full swing, and I am grateful for the cover of darkness so no neighbor could chance seeing the ridiculous spectacle of a large busted madwoman running laps in the dark and whisper-shouting in her pajamas. 

For an old dog of fifteen years, that little son-of-a-bitch can run! He doesn’t think this is a game. He knows I’m fuming mad and he’s legit thinking he can escape. I run after him in circles, getting an impromptu workout in the crisp morning air. I am ironically reminded of Wiley Coyote and the Road Runner from Looney Toons. He slows down and I close in, seize the moment and pounce, triumphantly tackling him and pinning him to the ground. 

I grab my prize by his scruffy neck, much to his protest, and haul his audacious furry ass back inside. The nerve of this dog, requiring me to do an unplanned pre-coffee workout at 6:30 am in my pajamas! In the distance, a lone coyote howls and cackles, mocking me. “Who’s the trickster now?” he seems to say. 

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