Coyote’s scat smells of stolen meat. With no thought to the impacts on the ecology, he’s taken to filling in prairie dog holes – my prairie dog holes – with dirt, pushing the rodents above-ground to his advantage. In retaliation, I have dragged logs from the thicket, interspersing them among the burrows of our prey, neutralizing his speed.
* * *
Badger’s a honey-munching half-wit. Been here in Nebraska, what, a year? Hope he chokes on some gooseberries. All these logs – hard enough to hunt the little buggers as it is. Always diving into those holes. But I’ve got family counting on me to provide. Shouldn’t have to compete with some imported overgrown weasel. Not in my America. Think I might try the caves. Pray to The Maker there’s game up there.
* * *
Admirably, I had relinquished my hunting territory to Coyote, relocating north to the caverns. But upon approach, who should be sniffing around, matted tail whipping every which way?
* * *
Don’t know much about caves, but you gotta tread lightly in these parts. Badger stomps up in a huff, squeaking that unintelligible gibberish at me. That’s when it happened. Cave-in. Now we’re both trapped down here. Empty hole, size of two grizzly bears. Injured a leg in the tumble. Tired myself out good trying to climb the rocky walls. Called to my kind, but we’re too far north. All my life I’ve prized my family, my God, and my freedom. Now I’ll die trapped. With him.
* * *
My final days, spent with a backwoods dullard. We’ve taken to staring matches, our only mode of communication. I cannot scale the walls. I’ve examined the embrasures of our prison, but cannot detect fresh air from any crevice. My hope fades with the daylight.
* * *
Badger’s conked out. Or pretending anyway. I’m keeping one eye open so that varmint doesn’t tear my jugular while I’m dozing. Funny, when the moon was blotted out – thought I saw the silhouette of another coyote. But then the clouds shifted and of course it was just Badger.
* * *
Coyote is asleep now. Vulnerable. Two swift movements of muscle and teeth would bring his death. I slept in fits and starts, afraid my compatriot might be plotting the same. In the new light of day, I have an idea. I do not like the idea. Yet I must try.
* * *
Woke up to him staring me down. Like he was trying to figure me out. Then he did the oddest thing. Walked over ever-so-slowly. Then flipped on his backside, belly exposed. Took everything in me not to rip him to shreds.
* * *
Coyote did not kill me. He sniffed me up and down, and in several unmentionable places. Then, gradually, I brought my nose to his – and nuzzled it like I might a young cub. His eyes grew quite wide. But I may have the trust needed for Phase 2.
* * *
Thought Badger lost his prairie-dog-loving mind. But after the weird nose thing, he kept waving his head toward the far wall, beckoning me. But then he did the unforgivable. Put his head right under my loins. Nipped him right on the neck. He slunk in the corner awhile after that.
* * *
Coyote did not understand. The pit is now spattered with my blood. We will die in this place after all, as enemies should. But then came his caterwauling – a horrible saccharine bawling. Right over by the root wall. I ignored it. For an hour, maybe two.
* * *
Credit Badger for seeing something I had not. Tree roots, thick as femurs, just out of reach. I could tell he was hurt. Tried to coax him over with my howling. Took ages, but eventually he came – shaking like a baby jackrabbit. Then I dropped down just like he’d done – stuck my muzzle underneath his belly, and pushed hard.
* * *
He understands! With a heave, I just might reach the lowest root, a few tail-lengths below the lip of our enclosure. Now comes the test of my strength, sapped by several days of malnourishment.
* * *
He’s done it! Badger’s out! Badger’s out, and I’m still here. And now that godless weasel will rule the range and my family will die of starvation. I’m a clodpole.
* * *
I considered it. Leaving Coyote there. My instinct instructs me to hunt while I can. But something stronger has swelled within me that I do not understand.
* * *
Hard to believe, but Badger came back about an hour later. It was a long hour, and I passed the time imagining Badger’s death in a hundred ways. But then he lowered the felled birch – not unlike the logs he’d hauled to slow my hunts. I walked right out. Now we both pant here in the sunlight, dry grass crunching under our paws once more.
* * *
I fear we will simply revert to old ways. Yet I am not the same. Is he? Coyote makes a motion with his head – an invitation to follow? We lope through scrub brush – south, toward the prairie dog holes. We spy it simultaneously. One lone prairie dog, an erect sentinel. I side-eye Coyote, anticipating our fierce competition. Instead, Coyote flanks me, driving his head against my hindquarters, nudging me forward.
* * *
Worked like a charm. Rodent dove down into his hole. Badger went nuts, digging like mad. Guess the prairie dog had an escape route, because he shoots out this other hole. I chased him down in three seconds flat.
* * *
Yes, he got the first one. But the next one stayed underground. A flurry of claws and jaws, and he was mine. Two prairie dogs. Two kills. I do not know if this is sustainable, this strange partnership. I still do not trust Coyote. But something is different, and our bellies are full.