Can I Pet It? — One Angry Waitress

Like so many of us who are stuck in their homes right now, I have a very rich interior life. Much of this interior life, lately, has involved a pair of coyotes that live in my area of the city.

Now, I’m no stranger to wildlife. I grew up in a relatively small town, where the deer often slept on our front lawn and crushed my mother’s tulips—much to her chagrin—and moose wandered through with their gangly babies and munched on the neighbour’s expensive ornamental trees. I was told there were cougars too, but I never saw one.

But the biggest threat was my friend’s father’s serval. The serval had an outdoor enclosure, but was mostly treated like a housecat (something that the SPCA advises against). The cat was free to circle the living room, terrorizing birthday parties, as we tossed cake as far away from ourselves as we could, in hopes of keeping it from getting closer.

The coyotes caught my attention when they started to saunter through the neighbourhood. They’re never really in a rush. Instead, they keep the pace of someone out for an afternoon jaunt to the mailbox.

They stare at me from across the street as I walk home with groceries, and traipse right across the front lawn, as if they too live here and have only forgotten their keys. The coyotes are lush, fluffy things, and it’s no surprise that the city recently upped the fines for feeding them.

I know they aren’t pets, and had even laughed at an Australian friend some years ago when he tried to pet one (not knowing what it was), much to the horror of his Canadian wife.

But a couple of weeks ago, my partner and I were talking about a friend of his who had driven past an elderly gentleman who’d been trying to fight off a coyote with his umbrella.

I was quiet for a moment before I asked, “What do you suppose it wanted?”

My partner, the patient, long-suffering constant in my life, gave me a long look over the top of his glasses and said, “Probably his Jordans baby.”

I blushed, realizing how ridiculous the question had been, but he wouldn’t let it go. Suddenly, according to him, the coyotes were demanding to be taught to do their taxes and open doors.

“Hey Larry, you turn it. Yeah, you just turn it. All night with this. Can you believe it?” my partner mimicked.

I pulled the covers over my head and pretended to pout, but with the giggling, I doubt I was very convincing.

In the morning, the coyotes were again in the front yard, and now one of them had a name. Suddenly, my partner and I were talking about them all the time. What was Larry doing? What hijinks had he gotten into today? Had he, by now, mastered the art of long division and sonnet writing? I hoped so. I wanted that for him.

My partner confessed too that, though he never would, he’d been tempted to feed them. And naturally, because I’m home by myself all day and already halfway to nuts, I took this as permission.

The next day, he came home to find the front door open and me beating eggs.

“What are you doing?” he asked, already exasperated.

“Baking a cake,” I said shortly.

I glanced out the window, searching for the 60-pound scavenger and his unnamed friend that I’d somehow become obsessed with. If I’d learned anything during those terrifying birthday parties of my childhood, it’s that a wild animal can never say no to the lure of cake.