I learned something today, not because someone told me, but because I saw it for myself. I saw a zombie coyote in my yard this morning. It was gray, like the human zombies I’m used to, and it dragged its feet, as if ambulation is a dreary chore. I thought the zombie coyote was a regular living one at first, and maybe it was sick. But the family of coyotes that lives in the sideyard was watching this one.
The zombie coyote didn’t pay any attention to them at all. He glanced in their direction—must have seen them—but didn’t act the way dogs do when they come across another dog. No eagerness, no nervousness, no watchfulness. The resident coyotes were keenly interested in it, however. After a few minutes of observation, two of them leaped across the yard and killed it. The kill went fast, as if it was an unpleasant job that needed doing, and they wanted to get it over with.
Instead of chomping on the zombie, one of the coyotes dragged it off the property and left it there, on the edge of an alley two houses away from mine. Almost as though he (or she) expected the trash guys to pick it up.
I have to run this escapade past Dr. Cohen. What could it mean?
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.