Harry and the Coyotes

I lived in Salt Lake City for some years and, before I ruined my right knee, I used to go running in the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains in the early mornings. I had three smooth fox terriers then, Harry, Iz, and Dyna, and I would take them with me. Only deep snow or temperatures below 20F would stop us from going.

The dogs were young but relatively well trained and because the trails were in BLM-managed land, I let them run off lead. Despite the easy access of the trailhead at the top of a fairly tony neighborhood, the trails were not heavily used, at least in the mornings. There were vistas from some of the hilltops where you could see the city spread out at your feet.

One crisp fall morning, I managed to convince a friend of mine to accompany us. The trail began with a gentle curve around a hill, climbing slowly until it suddenly shot off in a straight line, mostly up, towards the hill tops. Once you rounded the first hill, you could no longer see the parking area at the trailhead.

We were around a mile and a half from the car when a pack of coyotes appeared on the trail, coming up from below us. They were somewhat spread out but were clearly operating as a unit. As usual, the dogs were ranging ahead. I managed to call Iz and Dyna to me and snapped their leads on, but the coyotes separated Harry from us and charged him.

He turned and ran, heading farther up the trail.

I threw the car keys and the leashes to my friend, told her to take the two dogs back to the car, and I took off after Harry and the coyotes. Her eyes were as wide as saucers but she turned around immediately.

The coyotes had a lead on me and it was a steep climb. By the time I crested the hill, I could see nothing, hear nothing. I began to call Harry’s name, but I was out of breath, freaking out, and what came out of me was panicked howling.

Suddenly, a man appeared, a bow hunter. He floated up from below me just like the coyotes had done. He told me he had been in the ravine below and had seen the coyote pack tracking us. He said he saw them separate Harry. He said, is that how you normally call your dog to you? I was sobbing and yelling, but I took a breath and said, no. He said, try to call to him in a normal voice.

Suddenly, in the thick scrub oak below us, we heard dogs fighting, one crying out in pain. The bow hunter shot off like he was one of the deer he was hunting, leaping down the hill before I could react. I followed as best as I could but I was dressed for trail running, not bushwhacking. I could hear the dog fight continue, but it was moving, changing location, heading down the gully. Then, suddenly, silence.

I caught up to the bow hunter. He said, we need to climb back up to get a better view. As we crested the top of the hill again, I looked back down the trail and saw my friend running up the trail towards us. She was yelling and waving her arms but she was too far away to make out what she was saying. I continued to call Harry.

The bow hunter and I waited on the hilltop while I periodically called Harry, pausing to listen in between. All we heard was the wind. I was mentally frozen, sure that the coyotes had killed my dog. The bow hunter kept telling me to trust my dog, trust my dog, be calm when you call him. Finally, my friend got close to us and I heard her yell, he’s at the car! He’s at the car!

When she reached us, and managed to gasp out, Harry was hiding under the car when she got there with the other dogs, I collapsed on the ground, sobbing. If you read historical fiction, you may have read something like “she fell onto the sofa insensible.” Well, I was insensible, literally without senses, for several minutes. My friend had tossed all the dogs in the car, not even stopping to check Harry for injuries, and turned around again. The bow hunter kept talking to us, made us drink some of his water, and jogged back with us to the car. I can’t remember what he said now. I only remember thinking, he’s in the car, Harry made it that far.

Once the coyotes separated him from us, Harry did run up the trail further, then down into the ravine. There was indeed a fight. He had a nasty bite on his right rear thigh, a puncture on the outside and more of a tear on the inside. Amazingly, that was his only injury. I think we can infer that Harry was more interested in getting away than making a point.

Somehow, he managed to keep running and make it to the car along a route he had never been before, and there he waited. Quite amazing, really. The event was physically and emotionally traumatic for him. The vet warned me that when dogs get into fights like that, it can take a couple of days for them to recover even though their obvious injuries are relatively minor (he didn’t even require stitches). Indeed, it took Harry four days before he moved off his warm fleece blanket nest at home for anything other than meals and potty breaks. The fleece blanket he was curled up in was a get-well present for Harry from my friend G and my running partner of that morning; they brought it over that day. I still have that blanket, or what’s left of it. It’s well loved, just like my tough little dog Harry.