Ellen Datlow - Tails of Wonder and Imagination

He bounds over and keeps me pretty tight company, close enough so I can see him lower his nosy snout to the sand again, snuffle and come up smacking an unidentified insect. It is a good thing I skipped breakfast or I might have lost it right there. I am far from squeamish about the unadorned facts of life, since I have eaten a lot of meals raw in my time, but I draw the line at insects.

I can see that it will be a long day, but as we creep on our bellies toward the completed houses, plain awe quashes a lot of Happy Hocks’s more annoying qualities.

“What are these painted canyons, Mr. Midnight?” he asks.

I appreciate a suitably humble tone of address. “Houses, Happy. Modernistic mansions for idle humans with tons of money and a soup’s-on of social conscience.” (I like to expose the young to a little French.)

“Dens, Mr. Midnight?”

“Right. Dens… and exercise rooms and wet bars and state-of-the-art kitchens.”

Happy frowns at my laundry list of amenities, being a country boy, but grins again. “Dens. Are there kits inside?”

“Sure. Little kits and big kits.”

He frowns again. “Is that green that surrounds the dens some fancy water, for safety?”

“No, my lad. That is a moat of the finest Bermuda grass imported to cushion the humans’ bare feet and clipped to permit a few practice golf balls.”

“It grows, and they cut it?”

“Strange behavior, I know.”

“Can I walk on it?”

I eye the house before us, which is not the one that hosts the obnoxious Fideaux. “I guess it is okay, kid. Just here at the edge, though.”

So he trots along the sharp demarcation line between desert and cushy carpet of grass, his long legs pumping on the Bermuda.

“It is cool and soft,” he says with another grin.

“But not for you.” I gesture him back on the sand with me. If anyone is going to patrol on the emerald plush, it will be the senior member of this team.

Happy Hocks gives a yip only slightly less annoying than Fideaux’s and forgets himself enough to bound over to a clump of beaver-tail cactus.

“Watch those spines!” I warn again, beginning to sound like a nanny.

“Look, Mr. Midnight, bonanza!”

I trot over, hoping for a clue. Is it possible the amiable idiot could have stumbled across something important?

I spot a bright patch of tissue-paper on the ground. Orange. Then my less lengthy nose finally catches a whiff of what roped Happy’s attention. The paper is a Big-o-Burger wrapper. Nestled at its center is a nice bit of bun, burger and exclusive Big-o-Burger Better Barbe-Q Sauce, which I have been known to sample myself.

Happy politely steps back from his find. “You can have it, Mr. Midnight.”

Do I detect a glint of hero-worship in those bright yellow eyes? Certainly it is unheard of for a coyote to share with a dude of another species, and usually even with his own.

My nose tells me that the Better Barbe-Q Sauce is permeating a thick slab of meat, which is cooked but is also indubitably dead. I am about to partake when I recall my conversation with the head coyote about superior species spurning dead meat. I cannot go back on my avowed position, at least not within witnessing distance by any of the coyote clan, so I shake a mitt and mince back from the find.

“Go ahead, kid. I prefer sushi.”

“Fish!” he says in disgust, wrinkling his long nose. Happy Hocks nails the remaining Big-o-Burger with one bite.

We continue our rounds, observing the activity. Happy Hocks is full of wonder at the ways of humans. I know their ways and am watching for any that are out-of-the-ordinary.

Not much happens here. Any kids too young to be in school are kept in from the heat and nearby construction dangers. I see faces of my kind peering out from windows, never looking as downcast as I would expect at their imprisoned lot.

Except for the escaping Fideaux, I do not spy any dogs, no loss to me personally, except that this breed must go out, whether free or on lines, to do their disgusting duty. Imagine, leaving such unwanted items in plain view for someone else to pick up and bury! Such vile habits explain why the canine family occupies a lower rung of the evolutionary ladder than the feline.

I express my disdain to Happy, who frowns again.

“But Mr. Midnight, if we of coyote clan were to bury our water and dung we would not know where we had been, or who had been there first. We would have no way to mark territory.”

“Who would want such tainted territory?” I mutter.

But I get to thinking. Maybe this whole case is a matter of marking territory.

In a couple of hours I have toured as much of Peyote Skies as I can stand. I have also had enough of Happy Hocks’ prattle. I send the kid home, watching his yellow coat blend instantly with the dung-shaded desert. Our discussion of bathroom habits has definitely colored my outlook.

With relief, I take up a lone outpost under a newly planted oleander bush—no seedlings for these Peyote Skies folks, only expensive full-grown plantings.

Three houses down, workmen hammer, saw and shout. Here all is peaceful. Too peaceful. Although I welcome a world without dogs, I am uneasy at the absence of these popular house pets in this development. The entire outdoors is dogless, except for the undomesticated coyotes, and any of those that came within howling distance of here are dead.

Is Peyote Skies too pristine for dogs? I know some housing developments rule against many things.

Human voices disturb my reverie. I cringe deeper into the oleander shade. A woman exits the house, wearing slacks and sweater in the same putrid shades that saturate the development. Sure enough, a turquoise coyote is howling on her chest.

The man wears a suit, but the color is pale and the jacket is open. “Which sprinkler isn’t working, Mrs. Ebert?”

“More than one, a whole line, down by the oleanders.”

“Oh, at the edge of the lot.”

He walks my way, but he does not see me, because I am dark as dirt and I shut my eyes to thin green slits. His foot kicks at the small silver spikes poking up like lethal flowers through the expensive grass.

“Looks like a line’s out, Mrs. Ebert.” He bends down to fiddle with a sprinkler, but his eyes are skipping over the edge of the desert so close you can smell the sweet alyssum on the hot, dry breeze. At least coyotes use room deodorizers.

He is big, overweight like a middle-aged busy man will get, with a fleshy face too tan for an office-bound dude. He has thinning brown hair and dirt-brown eyes, sneaky brown eyes. The short hairs on my shoulder blades begin to rise. He acts like he knows someone is watching, but he never notices me, and I am even gladder of that fact now.

His back still to the woman, he reaches into his pocket to pull out something, maybe a handkerchief. Sweat beads on the hairless patches atop his head. His mouth quirks into what would be a grin if he were happy. He looks nervous, intent.

He throws the handkerchief past the oleanders, out toward the desert, as he stands. A good hard throw. Even I know that cloth is too flimsy to carry for a distance like that.

“Just a bum line, Mrs. Ebert. The company will replace it free of charge.”

“That’s great, Mr. Phelps.” The woman expected this, but she makes gratified noises anyway.