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Illustration by Brooklin Holbrough
The first winter snowfall comes at night and I take our two dogs from the condo on the western edge of Toronto down to Etobicoke Creek. The wide ravine is lit as if by a bright moon and silenced by the fresh, white blanket. No one is around. We cross the Middle Road Bridge, the first reinforced concrete span in North America, built in 1909, so says the plaque. It has an elegant arch truss and now serves as a pedestrian passage over the water.
From the woods to one side of the path, about 25 metres in front of us, comes a sizable coyote. Then another. Then another. And then another – their appearance, one by one, no doubt staged for dramatic effect. Before I can react, the scenario presents as a tableau: a hapless human with domesticated animals confronted by the raw, potentially violent reality of nature.
What am I doing here at night? I know coyotes are an urban threat but I’ve never felt endangered by the mangy loners that somehow make their way into Trinity Bellwoods Park downtown. This is a different kind of encounter, one on their terms, on their turf, and I am at a loss as to what to do in the moment. Protect the dogs? Protect myself at their expense? And just how am I going to do that?
The dogs begin to bark and I’m thankful they’re leashed, a rarity in such a setting for me and one that I’m sure saved their lives. The coyotes begin to approach, with the alpha leading the pack. I begin to back up, not taking my eyes off its gnarly gaze, noticeable teeth and wolf-like mane. These wild dogs are twice the size of my labradoodle and many times more than my partner’s bichon poodle.
When I raise my arms and yell, the coyotes pause, though I imagine the alpha is thinking, “When you’re quite done with that performance, we intend to eat your dogs, and maybe you as well,” in a sly Shere Khan kind of way right out of The Jungle Book. They recommence their advance toward us as soon as I take a needed break from my histrionics.
Turning to run does not seem the right thing to do, so I continue to walk backward on the slippery, snow-covered path, careful with every step. We back our way across the bridge, where lights from ravine-edge houses glimmer across the night snow. The alpha and I stop mid-bridge. It’s a long way down to Etobicoke Creek. Part of me thinks I’m in a Looney Tunes episode of Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner, with an Acme-brand detonator nearby.
The final climb to the now incongruous setting of a peaceful suburb is the steepest. My foot slips. The alpha seizes the moment and lunges forward with the others close behind. The leashes tighten as I fall backward, which helps me regain my footing, the dogs acting as anchors to set me right. The pack pauses again.
We’re now on a residential street and the coyotes are undeterred in their slow-motion pursuit beneath the street lights. Through the falling snow, I see people inside, warm and utterly unaware of the horror show scenario playing out just off their front lawns.
The dogs are wonderful throughout the ordeal. They are scared, too, and their barks help to ward off the pack without wanting to attack them. They must know this would be a mistake – two against four much larger adversaries.
The street is as devoid of human life as the ravine below and I ask myself how long this can go on and how will it end. With both hands tightly grasping the leashes, I’m not able to fumble for my phone and call for help. Besides, what exactly would I say? By keeping my stare locked on the alpha and yelling and gesturing, the pack keeps the same 10-metre distance it’s been throughout. This is a battle of wills as much as intimidation.
And then, without warning, the lead coyote drops back and the others follow. Not worth the hunt now that they are out of their territory, perhaps. I continue my backward pace but allow myself to look around more freely, bringing me back to a reality check. Did this just happen? Was this real?
I would not attempt the same route to get back to that world-away place of condos, shopping malls and doughnut shops. Facing forward now, the three of us move through snowy streets in search of a gap in the concrete noise barrier I knew would lead us to a broad boulevard. And from its crossing of the Etobicoke Creek ravine, I scan the winter scene below for a trace of the pack’s movement.
Paul French lives in Toronto.