MOSTLY TRUE

This particular evening, somewhere around 2014 perhaps, we were at the Upslope Brewery, relaxing after long hours of earning some extra cash, when we got the call about the chickens. Coyotes were in the middle of attacking the coop at our shared home in Hygiene, a tiny but well-named town outside Boulder.

Multiple chickens were down, and one of the dogs was bitten while fighting them off. Griff, our co-worker and host, offered me a rifle if I wanted to go back and see what was up. Nikolai, another friend sitting with us, said he’d grab his boots and head over with his rifle. We rushed home.

Now, I’m not a huge fan of guns anymore - Europe feels so much safer, especially after a lifetime of school shootings back home, but I had spent enough time in rural land and gun safety classes to know my way around a rifle. It was necessary to have them with all the predators near a farm.

Home is, as it was a few times that year, outside of Boulder, Colorado, with a few good friends of mine. The place was a beautiful old farm property with the St. Vrain River flowing through the back, often flooded because of beaver dams. Beautiful, but somewhat overrun by mosquitoes. In the winter, we’d walk on the ice to set off explosives to take down the beaver dams. They always quickly rebuilt.

Back to my story. We made it to the house, changed into boots and long sleeves, sprayed ourselves down with DEET, and loaded the guns. The dog was thankfully fine, sporting only a few scratches. He seemed stressed, but not too hurt. He was up-to-date on rabies shots. One of the roommates stayed behind to keep the dog safe and comfortable.

The chickens were another matter. Feathers everywhere. One was dead outside the coop. Two more were hurt and hiding inside - one looked like she was in shock. There was a wing left farther from the coop. The feather trails led down to the river and into the swamp.

We set off following the feathers, swatting at mosquitoes, fanning out in a five-person semi-circle as the feathers became scarcer. We followed them across a fence and out into a tall grassy field. We had a few walkie-talkies and someone reported each time we found a feather or footprint.

It was beginning to look like it was a number of the predators. Each of us was following trails. At some point, we stopped finding feathers. The trails got harder to find. Blood wasn’t showing up anymore on any pathway. We lost the trail in a group of cat-tails and still-water pools.

That night, I wasn’t convinced we’d track the coyotes back to their den; I think we all just wanted to do something about the attack. We were frustrated and passed a flask of whiskey around as we set our guns on safety and slung them across our shoulders. Commiseration and a bit of sadness crave group justification in a world where we often fail to protect our animals. We rolled and lit a few cigarettes and took turns sighing. We hoped our scent on their trail might help to keep them away in the future. One of us looked like he was about to cry about the chickens.

That story didn’t end with a win, and we were largely quiet as we settled down to make dinner, probably spaghetti or a stew.

I happen to love coyotes, and I think my friends do, too. I love their mischief-making and their playful demeanor. I love to hear them yip and howl in the evening. I don’t find them particularly frightening, as some people do. They’ve visited the front door of my house in the woods multiple times. One walked in to investigate while I napped with the door open. I’ve always enjoyed the quiet interaction and eye contact before they run away. But when they start killing chickens and biting the dogs, you’ve got to respond. You can’t have predators running off with your food.

We slept in our clothes that night, ready in case they returned for a second meal at the chicken coop. The guns were left loaded by the door. The boots were still ready. They didn’t return that night, but this wasn’t going to be the last time.