She was a good dog. She was a strong dog. She was never afraid of anything, except the nights the coyotes ran. I don't know if Sally was so much afraid of the coyotes themselves, as she was the Hank Williams and the Revelations splitting through the sky like a great pane of glass breaking in on top of us. The coyote is fairly termed a menace.
Coyotes eat calves and dogs and kittens.
Eradication programs only cause them to have more pups. The men whose business it is to keep up with such things scratch their heads and finally figure it's best to just let them run. They belong to that slippery group of animals like rats and roaches and possums, predating our proudest achievements by thousands of millions of years. Tonight they're running, laughing in advance, just waiting to survive the worst that can happen. The nuclear winter would find them radiated and glowing down the empty streets of the silenced cities, grinning and yelping and scattering the bones of the mightiest of the newcomers that called themselves men.