Feral
A small girl at the edge of the forest, early winter. The bright moon streams through the pines and cedars. A shadow at the boundary of the well-cared for yard. And within that shadow rests a murky form, seated and watching the girl. Her father, standing on the other side of the back yard, notes a pair of oversized, triangular ears, and a tapered muzzle, and he can faintly make out some black and white fur. He watches the girl and the young animal talking to each other. As he watches their quiet dialogue, he grins slightly and moves with intention towards them.
The girl and the animal have been speaking like this for a week. Each night the girl’s older brother brings her to the edge of the yard where she waits for the animal to emerge from the forest and sit in front of her. She holds out her hand, and it comes to her, lets her stroke its thick grey fur. She laughs—her small, trilling notes bleeding off into forest and the nearby home. Her brother studies with curiosity and jealousy the rapport between the two.
Pulling at his tie, the father continues marching quickly across the lawn towards them. He crosses the blue-black darkness of the yard and passes the outer fringes of the warm glow emanating from the house. When he comes to where they are talking, the animal looks up, cries, and then bolts off into the woods. The girl motions to follow it, but the father catches her by the arm and pulls her gently towards the house. He sends her inside to get cleaned up, and then he goes to the woods to see if he can find the young animal’s mother.
He pushes aside pine boughs and shines a bright white flashlight beam into the hidden world of the forest. The bright, obliterating light of his flashlight freezes the moving things of the forest and causes them to stop their magic. The father searches but finds no mother. He hears no whimpering pups. Still, he wants to get a better look at the animal, wants to figure out whether it’s wild or tame. The father has walked plenty among the boundaries of the feral and domestic. He has held with authority all manner of feathered, fur-covered, and pelted creatures of the woods and rivers around him. Finding no mother, he decides that he must get a better look at the creature. The following night, he steps out of his truck and heads straight to the back yard to find the girl and the animal once again speaking to each other. He walks with haste towards the animal, pushing the girl behind him. The animal bares its teeth and backs away into a tree trunk. He shines his flashlight into the eyes of the small beast. Startled, it lunges and bites his leg, drawing blood.
“Goddamit,” he shouts.
Damn thing probably has rabies, he thinks.
Now he needs to grab it to get it tested and figure out once and for all where the thing belongs. He tries to lure it with treats, tries cajoling. But nothing works. The mother tries. The grandfather tries. As soon as they near the animal, it always bolts for the woods. But it keeps coming, keeps sitting at the edge of the forest each night. And the girl asks for it, looking out the window and calling for it through the screen. Admitting defeat, the father shakes his head and sends the girl out to coax it into the garage.
“Here, ‘yote, ‘yote,” she says, unable to pronounce coyote.
And the animal comes.
She feeds it, and the family gives it a decent home in a small doghouse in the back of the yard. From its home at the edge of the receding forest, the animal watches the girl grow. Many nights, his powerful howls fill the house and echo through the neighborhood. He watches the girl dancing in the back yard and building forts and convening great councils to resolve all manner of childhood affairs. Though free to leave and do as he pleases, the animal stays with her, always choosing to return to the yard and the girl. It grows strong and tall with long, awkward limbs that he uses to gambol through the yard, chasing balls, bringing sticks, and occasionally returning from the woods with patches of its hair missing from fights with creatures unknown.