But on Monday (the plot always changes with the use of that article), I was so oppressed with fatigue, hammered by virus, and distracted by the tintinnabulation in my ears, that I grabbed a beautiful ivory mug, filled it to the brim with delicious smelling - so assessed by checking twice because of what I hoped would be temporary olfactory deficiencies - and headed out the door with my favorite hound to head for beach walk.
As the house and canine I am tending are neighbors, the jaunt is less than a mile but as soon, that very instant, we get to my cabin, Tito goes berserk running, barking, running in circles on the scent of something. Did I mention she is part Bloodhound?
I walk through the cabin and out the beck door and am standing on the deck watching her. In my hand is the coffee. It is still early, a dark, drizzly dawn.
As I try to call Tito because she is now creating a rippling cascade of disturbance in the otherwise calm morning, I see movement from the area she was circling. Was circling because she is now in full sprint down the trail to the beach. I recognize the profile. Now I see movement to the right and understand immediately what is happening.
TITO NO!
I am down the stairs sprinting to the beach as hell seems to have been unleashed.
It's a fucking coyote ambush and the dog I am tasked with care of, is the target. Time to earn my pay.
The tide is high with less than a five foot clearance. I hit the beach and spin right following the sounds. That she is still barking is the good news. I get to the lagoon bridge and see her, I call to her. She sees me but continues to track. I see two more coyotes running ahead. I call again in command voice. She stops.
COME.
She trots up to me expecting, I think, a reward for her efforts to save the community.
I grab her collar and we walk back up towards the cabin. The threat has passed, all is safe, and the morning shore birds are singing again, disaster narrowly averted.
When we get to the deck I see the remains of the mug.
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