God’s Dog

Winter is making another threat here in northeast Ohio, so I figured I best get some backcountry hiking in, just in case it’s serious about snowfall tomorrow. I opted for the Plateau Trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park—five good miles to shake loose the too-much-inside doldrums.
At first it was just a feeling—not uncommon when hiking the backcountry alone—that I was being watched. I had seen no one except a couple of White-breasted Nuthatches in a couple hours, yet I had the feeling I was being watched—make that stalked. I thought I heard leaves crunch and glanced over my shoulder several times but saw nothing.
Then feeling turned into reality. I froze. He froze, 100 feet away. Nothing but bright sunshine, clear air, a few sapling trees and braches between me and a wild beast. He had somehow maneuvered in front of me.
The hair on the back of my neck was sending a signal to the rest of my body. My mouth was dry, but I feared licking my lips. I’ve read that any movement might be construed as aggression. I figured sticking out one’s tongue was not a good idea. I’ve read not to stare into the wild beast’s eyes, yet I could not take my eyes from his; the deep amber color of the wet leaves. I’ve read that you’re not suppose to run, but I think that’s so the beast does not tire himself before he eats you. And I’ve read that wild animals can smell fear. I don’t think it’s fear they smell. I think it’s what was about to start running down my leg …
Then he blinked!
Something to his left caught his attention. He lifted his muzzle skyward and closed his eyes. I dropped to my knees in the mud and ice of the trail. In a frenzy to get into my pack, my trekking poles clattered as I struggled to dig out my camera.

I looked up, fully expecting him to be long gone. He was watching me, his head tilted to the right giving the appearance of curiosity. Another staring contest. This time I must have looked like an alien to him, somehow smaller, a single blinking eye with black surrounding it where seconds ago there had been a taller animal, red pelt, two long legs and two short legs, two eyes, gray beard. (Okay, coyotes are color blind. I’m just saying …)
Now he seemed more puzzled than hungry. Whatever was happening to his left made him look again in that direction, then turn. He peed on the ground, scratched a bit to mark the spot, then started to move away. Suddenly he stopped and looked directly at me.
On some primal level I got his message.

He moved through the underbrush, then magically appeared, standing on a fallen tree. He gave me one more look to be sure I understood. I assured him everything was cool, thanked him for his time and sat down in the mud to catch my breath. He disappeared.
So, why is Coyote called God’s dog? We have the native American Navajo people to thank. To them, he was a culture hero, trickster; a shape-shifter described as a buffoon, clown, or less frequently, a dangerous sorcerer and cannibal.
Coyote's adaptability, ingenuity, and intelligence are renowned and celebrated, not just among modern biologists who have identified 19 separate species of coyote, but throughout prehistory. His ability to endure is unparalleled. Yet this alone didn't make Coyote sacred. His engaging personality, comic playfulness, exuberant celebration, boundless joy, and extraordinary cunning mark him as something from the spirit world.
Called God's Dog by the Navaho who see him as originator of death and bringer of dreams, Coyote is both trickster and wise counselor.
On some primal level I get it. You don’t go eye-to-eye with God’s Dog and not understand.