Skip to main content

Coyotes, Chaos, and Canine Courage – A Day in the Life of an Overprotective Dog Mom

So, here’s the thing—I know we have coyotes in our area. It’s not exactly a secret. They’re basically our unofficial neighbors at this point. Lately, they’ve been as regular as the subway—every ten minutes, one trots by our window like it’s the 7:30 express to Downtown Trouble.

Now, I’m a vigilant dog mom. I’ve got fences, gates, lights, and the kind of situational awareness usually reserved for Secret Service agents. My little Papillon, Blueberry, never sets a paw outside without me. We go as a team, like a very small and furry version of the Secret Service detail I mentioned—minus the suits, though Blueberry would totally rock a tiny one.

But a few days ago, we were walking our old boy, Kobe—fifteen years old, gentle as a cloud, moving at a dignified senior pace. He stopped to sniff a bush. Harmless, right? A completely innocent dog moment. Except—apparently—not.

Because that harmless bush… growled.

Before I could even process what was happening, a coyote shot out of it like it was launched from a cartoon cannon. I swear, my heart nearly left my body and ran home without me. Kobe barked, I yelled, the coyote lunged, and chaos briefly ruled the land.

Thankfully, we managed to scare it off, and Kobe, bless his brave old heart, walked away with nothing worse than a dramatic little scar on his snout—what I now refer to as his pirate mark. He’s proud. He looks like he’s auditioning for an action movie. I, on the other hand, aged ten years in ten seconds.

If it had been my little Blueberry… I can’t even think about it. My sweet five-pound fluff would’ve been in serious danger, and the idea makes me feel physically ill. I try to protect her every moment of every day. But sometimes, life throws coyotes into your bushes—literally—and there’s nothing you can do about it except learn, breathe, and be grateful it ended okay.

That night, while I was still shaking and Blueberry was snoring like nothing ever happened, I started thinking: isn’t that just life in general? You can plan, you can prepare, you can put up fences—but sometimes, something wild jumps out of the bushes anyway.

And all we can do is hold our loved ones close, keep our eyes open, and maybe—just maybe—avoid sticking our noses where they don’t belong.

Although, let’s be honest—if Blueberry did stick her nose in a bush again, she’d probably expect it to produce treats, not wildlife.

So, here’s my heartfelt (and slightly frazzled) takeaway: life’s full of surprises, not all of them pleasant—but sometimes they come with a reminder to appreciate what really matters. Also, maybe invest in a good flashlight and a coyote-sized sense of humor.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Encyclopedia Was Our Google — And Dad Was Our Search Engine

You know you’re not a digital native when the word “research” makes you smell paper and hear the satisfying thud of a heavy book landing on a table. Welcome to my childhood, where curiosity was rewarded not with Wi-Fi, but with a stack of alphabetically-organized mystery bricks called encyclopedias . Let me take you back. The year? Somewhere in the analog era. The place? Our living room, where we had the entire Bertelsmann encyclopedia collection proudly displayed like it was the crown jewel of human knowledge. We didn’t just own knowledge—we subscribed to it. One glorious volume arrived each month, like an academic advent calendar for nerdy children. Volume “A” to “Z,” with deep sighs of longing in between. I swear, I still remember the day Volume “P” arrived. I rushed to the mailbox like I was expecting a letter from a secret admirer. Nope. Just got the lowdown on Photosynthesis and Peru. But did that stop me from doing a dramatic reading of it over dinner? No, it did not. M...

The Glamorous Life of a Writer (Or, Mostly Just Staring at a Screen)

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants). I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic. In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of ...

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

  Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...