Creepy Night Music

The eerie whines of hunting coyotes awaken me. I go out to check the dog, who nervously presses close to me. She is afraid of them. A neighbor has told me to be careful. She says the farmers are hunting coyotes, that she saw one as large as a big dog, and dead, in the back of a local pickup truck. She usually knows what is going on in the neighborhood. I was worried about Tabby, our gentle but old dog. I'd felt her fear of other canines before, when the neighbor's dogs came over. She'd be no match for coyotes, or coydogs. This latter, dear readers, are hybridized dog-coyotes, bigger and perhaps bolder than their completely wild counterparts. We've been told they den in an old gravel quarry, not far from Dragonwood. Even in my hastily thrown-on bathrobe, the night is warm. But the golden gibbous moon lolls crazily on its side in the hazy sky, and the frog songs, so melodious earlier in the evening, have shifted into a nervous trilling. In the dark, every snap from the woods means something, as Tabby's attentive ears suggest. Something big is moving in the woods. Tabby lays across my feet, but she is not scared like she was before. She wants to be outside. I don't. The hairs on my neck gradually begin to settle. I realize I've been petting her to comfort myself as much as to reassure the dog that she is not alone. In the night, when one has a soft heart, perhaps one does these things. Love makes a person bold enough to face fears, even if it's rather foolish. I pat the dog one last time. "I'm going in," I say softly, my usual parting words to her. She watches me go calmly. Kitty Bucko races outside when I open the door, ready to prowl the roof again. And I, dear readers, slip indoors to pen this experience for you! (original written at about 2 AM last night)