B.B. and The Stooges

"Oh shit," I said as I fully grasped what was happening. I knew they were out there; I knew they had been problematic, but I just had to do it. What a colossal freaking dummy I was.

"It" was a walk in the woods with my four large dogs. "They" were a trio of coyotes who had made it their vocation to spend an entire summer scaring the bejesus out of us. This would be the third time we'd come face to face that summer and I had no idea how I would get four dogs and myself out of there safely.

Our first encounter was with the largest member of the trio in late spring. My husband, Aaron, the dogs, and I were hiking a trail we had hiked numerous times before without incident, though I'll admit this particular section of the trail had always creeped me out a little bit. In southern New Hampshire, where we live, it's common for relatively open and airy deciduous forests to end abruptly and turn into darker pine and hemlock woods. The vegetation at floor level isn't dense- it's the thick evergreen canopies up high that give it a somewhat cavernous feel. When the skies are clear and the sun is shining, pointed rays of sunlight break through giving it an ethereal feel. On overcast or drizzly days, it's ominous enough to make me double my pace. This day was a sunny one and we were nearing the end of the darkest section when the coyote I would come to refer to as "B.B." (short for "Big Bastard") appeared ahead of us as we rounded a bend in the trail. He was broadside across the trail but looking directly at us as if he'd been waiting for us to come into view. All six of us stopped in our tracks. He was stunning. It seemed even the dogs were awed by him. He was tall, but not in a gangly way, with proportionately large ears and an elegant snout. He had a dark “mask” and his coat was a splash of black and rust along his back and down his tail, gradually turning gray over his sides, then tan, and finally lightening to ivory toward his belly. We all silently regarded each other for a moment, and without a sound, he slipped into the trees. We stood frozen for a moment, Aaron and I exchanging wide-eyed looks of amazement. We hadn't even spoken or resumed walking yet when our visitor issued a signal that our meeting had only just begun.

All six of us were broken from our reverie when we heard the high-pitched yip/yelp/bark coming from the direction in which the big coyote had gone, and it wasn't far away. Before we could do anything to prevent it, the dogs took off toward the sound like four fluffy black bottle rockets. We chased the dogs, futilely calling to each of them as we ran. The coyote stayed ahead of the dogs making sure to reinvigorate their drive to chase it with another series of yip/yelp/barks every so often. Aaron, the faster of the two of us, was able to keep the dogs in sight. I fell behind losing track of all of them and ran toward the sounds of the coyote's call, the dogs' barks, and Aaron's heavy footfalls.

After what felt like miles, it became clear that we were being led deep into parts of the woods we had never explored before. Nothing looked familiar and the vegetation was turning to a thick tangle of mountain laurel that tripped my feet and scraped my legs. I finally caught up to Aaron when he slowed a bit and we agreed it was time to quit playing this game. The dogs seemed to realize it too and, as if a spell had been broken, they trotted back in our direction when I gave calling them another try. I was so winded by then that what had previously been four distinctly enunciated words was coming out a slurry drunk sounding, "AmosBellaKellieJackson." We put the dogs on leashes, deciding it would be best to change course and to maybe just avoid that spot entirely for a bit. Fine with me.

The time of year was right for coyotes to be denning and raising babies, so it was logical to assume this one had been displaying a behavior known as "escorting" where they lure or follow perceived threats away from their den sites. People often mistake it for predatory behavior or assume the coyote is rabid. I had read about this behavior before and I was perfectly secure in assuming we just needed to be more polite, giving them a wider berth in the future. I was wrong.

The second encounter began with Aaron, our two kids, the four dogs, and I hiking a familiar loop in the opposite direction from where we met B.B. a couple of weeks prior. We talked and laughed, taking an occasional head count of the dogs to make sure all were accounted for. So far, so good.

All of our dogs are medium-large husky mixes, ranging from fifty-five pounds to around seventy-five pounds. Their personalities are distinctly unique to each of them including individual obedience-to-aloofness ratios which are further complicated by their particular levels of loyalty to the person issuing a command. Bella, our matriarch, for example will promptly and happily do anything Aaron asks but will look me right in the eye while blatantly- almost laughingly disobeying me while my volume and blood pressure incrementally rise to explosive levels. Amos, our older male, would walk through fire for the kids and I if we asked, but casually flips Aaron the bird for a minute before grudgingly obeying. Kellie and Jackson, youngsters from the same litter, were probably the best behaved of them all at that point simply by virtue of not yet daring to test boundaries. Both were and continue to be sweet, sensitive, and somewhat shy dogs. When we hike, we bring leashes just in case we need them, but it’s rare that we do. The dogs typically range out a bit to smell and pee on everything and big goofy Amos finds intense joy in chasing chipmunks he has zero hope of ever actually catching. It was no surprise when he did just that, bounding with glee over a stone wall and disappearing into the woods. We kept walking, figuring he’d catch up, but it seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual for him to circle back to check in. We called to him for a while with no response and even backtracked a bit to make sure he would hear us if he'd fallen behind. We concluded that he must have lost track of us completely and we hoped he had decided to make a beeline for home. We increased our pace a bit, occasionally calling to him as we went. Having already passed the halfway mark in the loop when Amos took off, it made more sense to complete it instead of turning around. We arrived home and he wasn’t there. It had been two and a half hours since we'd seen him last.

Aaron surmised that it was somewhat near the dead end of Smith Rd. in Warwick, Massachusetts where we had lost track of Amos, so we hopped in the car and headed there. As soon as we got out of the car, we could hear a distant volley of yip/yelp/barks from multiple coyotes followed by the deeper dog barks from Amos. We both took off at a dead run and found Amos on a small rise engaged in a tense standoff with B.B. who stood about thirty feet away on the opposite side of a damp impression. Seeing them so close together, it became even clearer just how huge this coyote really was. He was easily four inches taller than Amos at the shoulder, quite a bit longer from nose to tail, and outweighed him by at least ten pounds. Above B.B. on the opposite rise were two smaller, more normal-sized coyotes, “The Stooges,” who took turns darting out of the brush to make noise and retreating to cover. Without even thinking, I marched over and grabbed Amos by the collar, pulling him in the direction of the car. He was still not willing to take his eyes off his opponent, but reluctantly relented with some urging. Aaron told me to take the dog and go and he'd be right behind us. When I asked what the hell he thought he was going to do, he said he wanted to make sure that neither of the coyotes in the brush were actually stuck in traps or otherwise in trouble. I thought he was insane and said as much, but it seemed like the right thing to do. As I ushered Amos to the car, I wondered exactly what his plan was if they were caught in traps or otherwise in trouble when I heard Aaron yelling behind me. It was hard to make out his words, but there was definite alarm in his tone. I got Amos loaded up and started back toward where I'd left Aaron. He was no longer yelling, and my mind was cruelly conjuring some pretty horrific visions. It felt as if I was running through Jell-O with lead weights for shoes. I couldn't get back to Aaron fast enough, but I was afraid of what I might find when I got there. I was in the process of trying to ascertain exactly what my unarmed ass was going to do to "save the day" when I was startled by Aaron jogging toward me. We didn't speak until we were in the car. Amos was already asleep on the back seat, and I said, "Soooo, what the hell just happened?"

Aaron said that he had incorrectly assumed B.B. would respond by moving away when he advanced toward them. Most normal coyotes would- it was a reasonable assumption. Instead, B.B. stood his ground and when Aaron stopped advancing, B.B. lunged at him, stopping just short of making contact. That was what prompted the first bit of yelling I heard. This happened twice, each time causing Aaron to retreat a bit. Armed with only a pocketknife he wisely decided The Stooges were on their own if they were in trouble. He walked backward toward the car while keeping an eye on B.B. who seemed content to stay put and watch. When he saw the three of them disappear into the dense brush, Aaron turned around and began to jog.

It was after this incident- a close call by any measure- that I decided I would start carrying a pistol when I hike. Having grown up in rural New Hampshire in a family of hunters, I am well-versed in gun safety. I practice shooting often enough to be a decent marksman. Carrying a gun precluded me from being able to hike into Massachusetts where gun laws are much more stringent and living only about a mile north of the border meant I'd have to be mindful of where I walked. Both run-ins with the coyotes had happened south of the state line, so I was quite content to limit our forays to the northern ends of local trails. This seemed to do the trick, and the trio of troublemakers had even stopped being the prevailing topic of conversation when we hiked. By mid-August, they had become old news.

It was August fifteenth, a week after my birthday and I was feeling restless. I needed some air and exercise. Aaron was at work and the kids were at friends’ houses. The dogs were going stir crazy and getting on my nerves so I decided we would all benefit from a quick walk in the woods. It had become routine to grab my belt and holster before a hike and the dogs quickly learned that putting my belt on meant they were about to go for a walk. I remember trying to fake them out by putting it on where they couldn't see me, but invariably gave myself away when I unlocked the safe to retrieve my gun. As I do with every gun ALWAYS, I immediately verified that the chamber was empty. I don't store my guns loaded or with magazines inserted, so I loaded a full magazine and slipped it into the holster on my belt without chambering a round. Since the coyotes had ceased their antics, the gun seemed like a superfluous measure, but knowing old Murphy and his law very well, I'd surely need it the one time I didn't have it. The dogs' excitement grew exponentially as I completed each step in my pre-hike process and by the time I was ready to open the door to leave, I had to wade through four vertically leaping dogs emitting a deafening cacophony of excited high-pitched “yips.” I finally got the door open and in a single black streak, the dogs launched themselves off the porch steps toward the trail. I ran behind just to keep them in sight since they could also be jokesters now and then, taking a turn in the other direction to visit campers at the campground down the road. Campers = hotdogs and I can't compete with that. They behaved this time though and we hit the trail as planned.

The dogs got their sillies out in short order and performed their usual sniff/pee routine. I was enjoying the sun and air, probably wondering what I’d make for supper when all four dogs came to me to check in at once. I acknowledged that each of them was a good boy or girl which they usually took as a “release” to go back to doing dog things. They didn't spread back out though, and I was right in the middle of wondering why when I looked ahead on the trail and understood. About ten yards ahead, B.B. had emerged from the brush flanked by The Stooges, one on each side. They stood perfectly still just staring at us, a formidable triangle of teeth and fur. According to the little I know of canine body language, they appeared curious in an unafraid and dominant sort of way. Their heads were above their shoulders, tails straight out, ears pricked in our direction. This was the first good look I'd gotten of the three of them together and The Stooges looked like carbon copies of B.B. that had been accidentally shrunken in the dryer. He was twice their size, and my fear was almost overridden by my fascination. I broke out of my trance and came back to the situation at hand when B.B. lowered his head and curled his lips back to reveal a set of pearly whites that I was sure I'd feel sinking into my throat the next time I dared to blink.

"Oh shit," I said as I fully grasped what was happening. My dogs had formed a tight semicircle in front of me and in response to B.B.’s now obviously aggressive posture, they each seemed to grow to twice their sizes as their hackles raised and bristled. The only sound I could hear was the low guttural growl emitted through the bared teeth of each of my dogs. It’s a terrifying sound on a visceral level when issued by even one dog. Multiplied by four, it became a primal resonance which seemed to emanate from somewhere deep underground. The coyotes were scary, but hell hath no fury like four very pissed off dogs protecting their mama. I caught myself feeling momentarily endeared by their fierce protectiveness. The one thing I had concluded for certain following Amos’s solo standoff with B.B. was that turning your back on these coyotes was a very bad idea. I had my hand on my gun and mentally formulated a plan to at least send some high-velocity lead in their direction- a move we hadn't tried yet and which might even serve to deter them from being so bold with people in the future. I stopped short though after second-guessing the possible ramifications if that move failed to have its desired effect. "They might not even care," I reasoned. "The dogs will though. They aren't used to gunfire- especially Kellie and Jackson. They'll run for sure. If they run, the coyotes will chase them. Game over." I briefly considered aiming with the intent to kill B.B. but dismissed that idea just as quickly, knowing that missing would have the same dire consequences. I wasn't even sure I could make my hands work well enough to chamber a round shaking as badly as I was. I had leashes for the dogs- maybe leash them and then shoot? That was ridiculous and I dismissed the idea entirely after a brief mental image flashed on my brain screen showing me being ripped off my feet as 250 pounds of dog bolts away with leashes attached leaving me to deal with the coyotes from the ground. I gathered what was left of my wits, deciding I had run out of time for “what-ifs.” I firmly but quietly told the dogs to "stay close," a command that I prayed would work as well now as it had in the past. I began to walk slowly backward. The dogs stayed with me and had to walk sideways to keep an eye on the coyotes while also navigating the trail. We walked the entire quarter of a mile or so this way. The coyotes followed, maintaining the same ten-yard distance between us. We reached the gate to the cow pasture at the edge of our property and the dogs snuck under while I risked turning my back on the coyotes to climb over it. They had ducked into the brush on the side of the trail and while I couldn't see them anymore, I knew they were there.

The dogs sprinted across the pasture and through the yard to the porch, and I hopped down from the gate into the relative safety of the pasture. I took what felt like my first breath since the whole confrontation began. My cattle were there by the gate, sniffing the air and eyeing the wood line suspiciously. I smirked to myself a little, mentally daring the coyotes to follow knowing that they would definitely regret that decision. Coyotes, lions, tigers, and bears be damned; there is NOTHING that will mess with a whole herd of Scottish Highland cattle without wishing they hadn't. I walked across the pasture, looking over my shoulder now and then to be sure I hadn’t overestimated my cattle’s willingness to go to battle on my behalf. I made it safely to the door and after stowing my gun in the safe, I collapsed in an exhausted heap on the sofa surrounded by four snoring dogs.

This was the last any of us saw of B.B. and The Stooges. We hiked a bunch more that summer without a peep from them or any notable wildlife really, except a bear eating wild raspberries with her cubs. We've theorized that the coyotes must have gotten too bold with someone who was less hesitant to pull the trigger and that B.B. is now just a lovely pelt draped over the back of a sofa. We did tell this story to someone "in the know" the following winter and I was taken aback by his lack of surprise or concern. He listened intently enough but responded as casually as if he’d heard this one before. When I pressed him, somewhat miffed by his cavalier attitude, he offered an explanation I wasn’t expecting. Apparently, a man from Northfield, Massachusetts had released five high content wolfdogs in the Royalston area several years before. None of them had been spayed or neutered and they were all young animals of around two years old. Despite the best efforts of local Fish and Game, rescue organizations, and private citizens none had been successfully captured or even located. Sightings were investigated to some extent, but none were ever conclusive. It was assumed that having been kept as pets previously, they would likely starve to death or be shot by hunters mistaking them for big coyotes. The problem was expected to sort itself out, in other words. What they hadn't anticipated was that at least one of these wolfdogs might be integrated into a pack of coyotes and subsequently produce hybrid offspring. Unlike some hybrids, which produce infertile offspring due to almost-but-not-quite compatible genetics, hybrids of coyote, dog and wolf are perfectly fertile. I asked if this could be one of those. He shrugged, “Could be. Sure sounds like a plausible explanation, but there’s no way to know. Even if it is, those wolfdogs are long gone, and the lines will dilute back to normal soon enough.” I smiled and nodded, accepting his answer without further commentary.

If you live in southwestern New Hampshire or north central Massachusetts, keep your ears peeled after dark especially when the moon is high and bright. Your mind may not actually be playing tricks on you if you think you've just heard the long, mournful howl of a wolf in the mix when your local coyote pack conducts choir practice.