The Global Coyote Conspiracy
I’m a dog person. I’ve always been a dog person. I’ll always be a dog person. I like dogs. I think cats are little balls of fuzz that serve only a handful of purposes.
(One of those purposes is soup.)
So, as a dog person, I’ve always had an interest in wild dogs. I had this fantasy where I would be trapped in the frozen woods and saved by a pack of friendly but misunderstood wolves. Later, we’d win the Iditarod, saving my family home from foreclosure and convincing the locals to stop hunting wolves by showing how noble and awesome they are.
It is with this mindset that I make a simple declaration of belief: Coyotes are not dogs. They are very large, angry, demonic rats.
Coyotes Hit My Car
The other day I was driving into town along the Outer-line road. All of a sudden, in the field to my right there was a great dark mass. It was writhing it’s way across the road I’d be barreling through at 55 miles per hour in a matter of seconds. I stomped my brakes in panic. Then realized what was in front of me, and my blood grew cold.
A massive pack of coyotes.
There was probably 15-20 of them. My mind referenced my fear of Coywolves and the knowledge that they form packs where normal coyotes do not. I immediately knew I was about to be gang-eaten. A split-second later, something large and heavy smashed into the front of my car. Most of the pack had already moved on, so I sped off, bouncing slightly as the heavy mass rolled under both sets of tires.
I didn’t stop and check my car for damage. I didn’t want to get out of the protective shell of fiberglass and steel to find a pack of coyotes pissed at me for killing one of their own. I knew that if I did, I’d get ripped apart in the most vicious and painful way possible. Coyotes are evil little bastards. Instead I chose to drive the remaining 15 miles into town, picked a well-lit parking lot and checked for damage there. With a sheriff in screaming distance, I did an inspection of my car. I crept along the sides. No dents. I cautiously peaked under it to see if there was a clinger. Nothing.
I know I hit one of those things head on, but there was no sign of it.
I went into the gas station convenience store. I got something to drink and a little snack. I calmed myself down. Then I headed home.
I had forgotten why I came into town in the first place.
As I drove home, I kept an eye out for the smushed corpse.
It didn’t exist.
There was absolutely no evidence I had ripped my way through one of those monstrosities.
There was no blood or fur spewed across the pavement. No small stain where it might have once been. Not even a dookie, dropped in a moment of fear. As far as I could tell, the thing had thumped through me and kept on running. Judging by the fact that there wasn’t a pile of coyote bodies littering the busy interstate a few dozen yards away, I’m guessing cars don’t phase them much.
I Told My Roomlord About My Adventure
My roommate-slash-landlord is from a tiny town in the Ozarks. He’s spent his entire life living in the vast wilds of Missouri, and as such, is used to dealing with wild mongrels. I told him about my encounter with the pack of coyotes, and his only response was, “Yeah, they’re real bad around here right now.”
Now, I know he’s a country boy who also deals with rabid gas station customers on a daily basis, but his nonchalance about the monster dogs running rampant through our tiny piece of no where really surprised me. I told him what I knew about coywolves, and he humored me. In his life, coyotes had always run in ravenous packs of man-eating hate. That wasn’t the big upsetting news, though. He was used to them being around in our yard.
He wasn’t upset by this. The man has TWO KIDS UNDER TEN, and wasn’t worried about the giant flesh-rending masses of wild dogs.
I tried to play it cool. I tried not to let him know that I was a city boy and wild places terrify the crap out of me. I’ve been pretty cool about our war on with the mice. I’ve not jumped with insane alarm at a rabbit or deer running scared across the yard in a long time. I like to think I’ve done a pretty good job of controlling my belief that everything in nature wants to kill me.
A pack of invincible monsters is something entirely different.
The fear is starting to get to me. I’m seeing coyote monsters everywhere. The little bastards are like wild, canine ninjas lurking in the shadows… waiting… patient…. hungry.
I can’t bring myself to just go outside for no reason. I have to be cautious and ready. My only solace is that I’m terribly fatty and high in both sodium and cholesterol. I’m hoping that they are smart enough to know that eating me will give them a significant risk of diabetes and heart disease!
I know that one of these mornings, I’m going to step outside to head into town, and boom. I’ll get taken down by a pack. They’ll rip me to shreds, devouring my entire body in a matter of minutes. By the time anyone else in the house is awakened by my screams, the only remains will be one black Chuck Taylor All-Star, slightly chewed. When they go outside to see what happened, all they’ll see is the silhouette of a large coyote, slipping off into the field wearing a trilby.
Most People Think I’m Paranoid
Whenever I try to warn someone about the dangers of the coyotes, they all come out to the defense of the man-eating monsters.
“They’re just scavengers,” they say. “No reason to be afraid of them, they leave people alone.”
“What about all those stories of man-eating coyotes from Arizona?” I ask.
“Those are desert coyotes, around here we have forest coyotes.”
“That doesn’t seem very logical,” I rebut. “What about the coywolves and their abilities to shape shift into used-car-salesmen and grandmas?”
This is when I know that they’re all victim of the Global Coyote conspiracy! The Secret Cabal of Coyote Chiefs that dominate the world economy and media. I’m the only one that can see it.
Now, I’ve put this out there and they’ll be on to me!
I’m going to have to go into hiding. I hear Antarctica is coyote free. The penguins will keep me safe.
You can always rely on penguins.