By Russ Farrell
Editor’s note: In the 1950s, a “stump farm” of eighty-eight on the Olympic Peninsula, had many coyotes who would kill the chickens, duck, geese or even baby pigs or calves. The families, who lived on old logged off farms, were for the most part self-sufficient, raising most of the food that fed them. Once a month or so, they’d travel to Port Angeles for staples they didn’t raise. Needless to say, coyotes were a problem. And a gun was always loaded above the kitchen door frame.
She screams, “There’s a coyote, Russ! Get the gun!” And I do, and I clamber up the stairs and open a window. And she’s hollering, “Wait, I think it’s Kautz’s dog.” And this maybe coyote is jogging up the road. And I know Kautz’s dog’s got a droopy bushy tail, makes you think his daddy was a wild one.
And the kids are hollering, “That’s Kautz’s dog!” And “No it ain’t, cause Kautz’s dog is darker.”
And she’s ringing Kautz, and they ain’t up yet ’cause it’s Sunday morning, and they were out last night. And the coyote, or Kautz’s dog, is loping right on up the road and towards the chicken house. And it’s the kind of morning you can’t tell good—dark and foggy-like.
And she’s ringing and hollering, “Don’t shoot yet!” And I got the gun pointed straight at its head, and the gun is moving up and down at every lope. And he’s starting to cross the field in front of the barn.
And Sandy’s hollering, “Shoot it!” And Jeri’s hollering, “I know it’s Kautz’s dog!” And three-year old Jamie’s just hollering.
And the phone is ringing and ringing. And the whatever-it-is, is getting closer to the woods. And she’s screaming. “Kautz’s dog is home!” And the coyote is jumping into the underbrush.
And I pull the trigger and it goes… CLICK.