surviving a coyote attack . . . minus the attack

I've long contended that exercising is dangerous for your health. There's turned ankles, pulled hamstrings, torn ligaments, coyote attacks. 

Obviously.

That's why I decided to forgo a walk last night. 

Or should I say, THEY'RE why I decided to forgo a walk last night. 

Coyotes. 

In the middle of the evening. 

On MY road. 

That I pay taxes to use. 

When I saw a pack of young coyotes trotting down the road, I made a quick decision to put those tennis shoes right back where they'd come from . . . and to drop to the floor and Army crawl across the room so they wouldn't see me. 

I'm no hunter, but my dad always talks about not making sudden movements, loud noises, or standing in a place where the wind will blow your scent their way. 

That counts when you're still inside, right?

(You can judge. It's ok. I would too.)

So with all the stealth of a elite SEAL team, I snuck out the door, tiptoed down the deck, and dropped flat in the lawn with my camera in hand. 

The coyotes were still a tenth of a mile away . . . for, like, three seconds. 

Through my camera lens, I realized they were racing toward the farm with a semi-alarming speed. 

As I started backing slowly toward the house, I began kicking myself that we hadn't bought a donkey (they're supposed to be downright nasty when it comes to keeping coyotes and other varmints away from herds of cows). 

Seriously. WHERE ARE THE DONKEYS?!

Then I realized my cover was blown. The two little kittens, as oblivious to the coyotes as most people in Wal-Mart are to personal space bubbles, were picking their way through the lawn like they were walking on glass shards instead of grass. 

And meowing. 

Loudly.

And the coyotes had heard them. 

I felt a sudden urge to start screaming for Chris and the children to get inside, Ma Ingalls style, until I realized Chris wasn't there and the Lord hasn't yet blessed us with children. 

Then my life flashed before my eyes. 

Well, not my life. I actually had visions of Belle from Beauty and the Beast, beating back wolves with nothing more than a torch while standing virtually barefoot in driving snow. 

{So it was still 90 degrees outside. So I wasn't in a semi-creepy forest. So I'm not a Disney princess. Humor me here.}

Instead, I retreated to the front porch with the kittens bouncing alongside, wondering if half-burned birthday candles would work just as well at keeping the pack of creatures at bay.  

The coyotes kept coming. 

One bravely stopped just a few feet from me and then headed toward our driveway. 

Little Kitty's face went from the usual to . . . 

attack mode. 

I started hooting and hollering, waving my arms and yelling while the coyote stared at me like I'd grown a third arm . . . or a sixth toe, which, by the way, Little Kitty's gene pool is pretty much known for. 

His family took off. 

He stayed. 

{Side note: When my husband hollers and charges a bull, it runs away. When I did it to the coyote, he basically yawned . . . WHILE LICKING HIS LIPS. 

Ok, he didn't do that. But he did give me the stink eye. Not that I could see it, cowering on the porch. But I could FEEL it, people.}

And then, before I even had a chance to WikiHow "How to Survive a Coyote Attack," he was gone. 

(Really, WikiHow? Let's not expect a girl who can't find an opening in a fence to pull a coyote's tail, give it a kick, and then grab its neck without first running away, screaming, stopping, dropping, and rolling, hiding behind a kitten, and then giving up on life. You're reaching, Internet. Really, really reaching.)

And just like that, he dashed across the road and into the field, presumably either (a) to catch up with his siblings, whose mother probably kicked them out of the den like a lazy college student without a job, or (b) to smell the roses, I mean, coneflowers. 

That's country living, folks. One minute you're ready to go for a walk, and the next you're valiantly defending the homestead. 

Ok, minus the part where the homestead never really needed defending. 

Still . . . coyotes!