They moved into our backyard the summer before eight grade – nature had nowhere else to put them. Dad wanted to shoot them with the shotgun, but Momma said he fire a weapon in town. I said I’d crawl in the den with them – I drew the senseless-killing line at baby animals. A buck or a goose for food, okay; but killing a baby coyote just because it was a nuisance was different.

I found them buried in a mound of leaves in the mound of leaves left under the pine trees to compost. They were tiny black things with eyes still fused shut. The four of them crawled over each other barking in minute yelps. I didn’t know if they could tell I was there. I ran inside the back porch. Through the screen, I peeked over the window ledge, I watched the shaded leave pile. I waited while the sun rose higher and higher, until it crested and the shadows lengthened again.

Momma brought me a lunch of grilled cheese and milk. She kissed my head and told me not to touch the babies or the mother coyote wouldn't care for them.

I waited and watched all the way until Dad came home. I heard the front door close and ran to meet him.

“Dad, you’ll never guess.”

“What?”

“There’s baby coyotes in the back,” I said. “What should we do?”

“Get my gun. That’s what,” he said.

“You can’t kill them.” I tugged at his hand. “They’re just babies.”

“They’re a problem. They ran off with Arnold’s dog, remember?” He tussled my hair.

I looked up to him, pleading. “That wasn’t them. These were other coyotes, not these.” I pulled him through the kitchen toward the back porch. “Besides that dog barked non-stop.”

“Eric, didn’t they teach you that coyotes are a problem in school?”

“No.” I looked to Momma, who was dumping noodle into a strainer in the sink. “All animals are good.”

“Frank, you can’t be shooting a gun in town anyway,” Momma scolded as the steam surrounded her face. “Both of you get ready for dinner.”