Summer is here. Well, it’s spring, really, but in this perverse
climate, real spring only lasts one month—it’s called
April. By May, the temperatures start inching up; everyone goes into
instant denial that it’s this friggin hot already; and people gird
their loins in fear of the whopping electric bills they’re anticipating
from those pirates over at Tucson Electric Power.

When I say “everyone,” I mean everyone except for the real dumb
ones. Their denial drives them to drown their terror in alcohol
and, in the case of a fellow up in Phoenix, go out and pet a
rattlesnake.

I’m not making this up. It was on the news. Apparently, rattlesnakes
don’t like to be petted.

And rattlesnakes aren’t the only beasties that come out at this time
of year. Remember that disappearing bee disease a couple of
years ago? Well, that’s not really what it’s called. I don’t remember
what it was called. The point is, I know where all those bees are:
Here. Palo verde trees are full of them. I don’t know whether the
honeybees bred with our own bloodthirsty Africanized
variety—maybe they thought bad boys were sexy—or if the
honeybees were raped and pillaged by the Africanized variety, but
whatever happened has resulted in what can only be described as
“unusually testy” bees. If you get too close to their hives, they fly
into your head, bonking you in warning. If this happens, take note:
They’re not blind. They’re warning you.

But it’s not just the bees and the rattlesnakes that are the
problem. It’s coyotes with postpartum depression.

The other day, I was walking my dogs: Lady, Macho and Sissy. Sissy
has no mind of his own, no prey drive, and since his legs are only
about 4 inches long, he follows the rest of us about 10 feet behind.
He’s the most harmless dog ever, looks like a four legged Cousin Itt,
and mostly trawls for old french fries and bits of fast food thrown out
car windows by teenagers.

Macho was pulling at the leash to go forward, while Lady was
politely taking a pee when, all of the sudden, a fearful yelping
erupted. I turned to see a coyote attacking poor Sissy.

Instinctively, I let Macho off the leash; Macho not only chased said
coyote away from Sissy before any real damage was inflicted, but
followed the coyote behind the houses and down the wash, where a
fearful cacophony of yelping, barking and howling arose. Macho came
running back, coyote in pursuit, and as the coyote retreated, Macho
resumed his attack. This went on for a minute or two, with roles
reversing at regular intervals, until the coyote triumphed in sending
Macho back from whence he came.

Then a friggin’ homeowner came out. Just my luck! I ran into the
only person in Tucson other than me who understands a damn thing about
the natural history of coyotes. “She’s probably got pups in the wash.”
He probably thought I was siccing my dog on the coyote for fun.

“That’s fine,” I said, “but she attacked my dog for no reason. What
was I supposed to do?” He and I talked for a minute, with him turning
his head and whispering endearments to soothe the coyote, who was still
standing there, yipping in fury and outrage.

“It’s OK, baby,” he says. “Go back to your children.”

He thought she was the victim. But I know differently: She’s had
this free and easy life eating rabbits, trash and domestic animals,
while running with her pack all hours of the night. Then all of the
sudden, she gets knocked up, and a few months later squeezes out seven
or eight squalling puppies. Gone are all night prowls, the moonlight
runs. These days, life consists of sitting in a hole in the side of a
dried-up riverbed trying to keep these pups, who never shut up or stop
eating—her teats are so sore that she can barely stand
it—from getting shot by bored Bubbas, eaten by predators or run
over by cars.

Life has gotten pretty routine. And damn it, she’s pissed.

While we were standing there talking, that homeowner feeling her
pain, I was seeing something else entirely in her eyes: She wished
Macho would come at her again, and maybe even again, so she could give
him a real ass-whooping. She was having the time of her life. Because
in her darkest moments, she wonders if the good times are gone
forever.

This article appears in May 14-20, 2009.