Odd Hours

case. I barely escaped that situation without leaving behind a mouthful of my butt.
    If I had been Hutch Hutchison and had found myself on the menu of a coyote pack twice within seventeen months, I would have viewed this not as an interesting coincidence but as irrefutable scientific proof that coyotes as a species had turned against humanity and were intent on exterminating us.
    In the fog, on the greenbelt, alongside Hecate’s Canyon, the six prime specimens of Canis latrans had none of the appeal of any of the various species and breeds that pet shops put in their windows.
    This was unusual, believe it or not, because coyotes sometimes can have a goofy charm. They are more closely related to wolves than to dogs, lean and sinewy, efficient predators, but with feet too big for their bodies and ears too big for their heads, they can appear a little puppylike, at least as cute as Iran’s homicidal dictator when he puts on a leisure suit and has his photo taken eating ice-cream cones with grade-school children whose parents have volunteered them to be suicide bombers.
    With narrow faces, bared fangs, and radiant-eyed intensity, these current six coyotes confronting Annamaria and me did not have what it took to be featured in a Purina Puppy Chow commercial. They looked like fascist jihadists in fur.
    In most perilous moments, I can put my hands on a makeshift weapon, but on this empty greensward, the only possibility seemed to be a wooden fence pale if I could break one of them loose. No rocks. No baseball bats, buckets, brooms, antique porcelain vases, frying pans, shovels, pop-up toasters, or angry cross-eyed ferrets, which had proved to make effective impromptu weapons in the past.
    I began to think I really needed to get over my gun phobia and start packing heat.
    As it turned out, I had a weapon of which I was unaware: one young, pregnant, enigmatic woman. As I urged her to back slowly away from the toothy pack, she said, “They are not only what they appear to be.”
    “Well, who is?” I said. “But I think these guys are largely what they appear to be.”
    Instead of cautiously retreating from the beasts and hoping to discover an unlocked gate in a fenced backyard, Annamaria took a step toward them.
    I said what might have been a bad word meaning excrement, but I hope that I used a polite synonym.
    Quietly but firmly, she said to the coyotes, “You do not belong here. The rest of the world is yours…but not this place at this moment.”
    Personally, I did not think it was good strategy to tell a pack of hungry carnivores that would-be diners without the proper attire would not be served.
    Their hackles were raised. Their tails were tucked. Their ears were flat to their heads. Their bodies were tense, muscles tight.
    These guys were up for a meal.
    When she took another step toward them, I said nothing because I was concerned my voice would sound like that of Mickey Mouse, but I reached after her and put a hand on her arm.
    Ignoring me, she said to the coyotes, “I am not yours. He is not yours. You will leave now.”
    In some parts of the country, coyotes are called prairie wolves, which sounds much nicer, but even if you called them fur babies, they would not be cuddly bundles of joy.
    “You will leave now,” she repeated.
    Astonishingly, the predators seemed to lose their confidence. Their hackles smoothed down, and they stopped baring their teeth.
    “Now,” she insisted.
    No longer willing to meet her eyes, they pricked their ears and looked left, right, as though wondering how they had gotten here and why they had been so reckless as to expose themselves to a dangerous pregnant woman.
    Tails in motion, ducking their heads, glancing back sheepishly, they retreated into the fog, as if they had previously been foiled by Little Red Riding Hood and now this, leaving them deeply unsure of their predatory skills.
    Annamaria allowed me to take her arm once more, and we continued south along the greenbelt.
    After some fruitless reflection on the meaning of what had just transpired, I said, “So, you talk to animals.”
    “No. That’s just how it seemed.”
    “You said they were not only what they appeared to be.”
    “Well, who is?” she asked, quoting me, which will never be as enlightening as quoting Shakespeare.
    “What were they…in addition to what they appeared to be?”
    “You know.”
    “That’s not really an answer.”
    She said, “All things in their time.”
    “That’s not an