How To Immolate a Coyote

I have previously mentioned friend and fellow writer Carl Teichrib. This is one weird dude.

We were out there for a visit–and it’s way out there–and lo and behold, a coyote decides to pick Carl’s yard for its final resting place. Off goes him and Dave with a gun to poke the critter, which is curled up in a sad heap against the shed.

Carl’s wife, who is one of my favourite people in the world, gives him some stern words. Apparently the urge to kill is genetic in his family. If a bald eagle were to land next to Carl’s father, she tells me, the man would assume that it has to be sick to get that close to him, and kill it. Therefore, she does not take seriously Carl’s many assertions that the coyote is truly in need of mercy. The kind that comes with gunpowder, that is.

As it turns out, the coyote is in fact diseased, which causes quite a bit of consternation. Carl has put it out of its misery, but the last thing any self-respecting prairie person wants is the family dog going for a roll in a diseased carcass. The conclusion is that the coyote must be immolated.

After lunch, Dave and Carl take off like boys at Christmas, coyote carcass in truck. Apparently they are going to assemble a funeral pyre, and hopefully it will have lots and lots of big flames.

We wives send the kids downstairs to play, and we sit talking in the sun. Our eyelids droop. “You know it’s a good friendship when you can fall asleep without worrying about entertaining each other,” Carl’s lady says.

The kids prevent any real snoozing, but she’s right about the lack of need for conversation. Eventually, the Mighty Hunters return. We hear the door bang.

“Pretend to keep sleeping,” she whispers, and I smother a grin. The guys walk in and give each other a dazed look. Here they are,  busy turning varmints into burnt offerings, and their women are napping.

Some time later, the kids go out to play. When they return, Carl calls to his son, “Is that coyote still burning?”

I lose it. I’m sorry, but where in the world else can you hear a phrase like that uttered so casually? Later, out of Carl’s earshot, my husband rolls his eyes and mutters, “You know if you have to ask whether the coyote’s still on fire, you didn’t do it right.”

Cheers to the Manitoba backwoods and its…er…multifaceted folk.