I dressed as Davy Crockett this Halloween. King of the Wild Frontier. I was helping with a children's pumpkin painting event, and a costume seemed in order. I needed to be able to move easily to help the kids, and I didn't know if any of the other adults would wear costumes, so an elaborate costume seemed like a bad idea. When I unearthed my son's faux raccoon hat from the costume box, a gift from my mother when he was about seven, and discovered it actually fit on my head, I was in business. I also found a Sears chambray snap-front cowboy shirt in the box. I know Davy predated Sears but it seemed a good match nonetheless, especially since I didn't care what happened to the shirt in any crossfire between paints and permanent markers. I then headed to my own closet and added a pair of light brown brushed corduroy straight pants which I thought were about as close as one could get to the appearance of tanned deer hide without killing and skinning a deer. I topped the whole outfit off with a pair of calf-high dark brown suede boots that were made for walking, making them just right for Davy.

I enjoyed my few hours as Davy Crockett. There was a power and a freedom in that outfit, an imaginary transport to a time when just about every single thing I fret about or stress over didn't exist or matter. One little boy asked me where my gun was. I said I didn't think I needed it to paint pumpkins and hadn't brought it. This may sound like a really stupid answer to parents, but I am nothing if not a perfectionist. As Davy Crockett, I couldn't say I didn't have one or need one or that guns were dangerous. That might be something I would say, but not Davy Crockett. To get the boy off the topic, I told him I had a horse. I wasn't lying. I did. I found that in the costume box, too. A handmade fleecy stick-pony I'd picked up for my son somewhere, and of course, he'd never looked at twice. The little boy eyed me like I was full of donkey doo on that one, too, so we returned our attention to the orange pumpkin he was attempting to turn totally green by running out every green marker on the table. He was going for Frankenstein, and finally made it.

I was several days back into being my own self when I picked up the phone this morning. It was a recorded message from our town police department about two incidents of coyotes chasing and being aggressive towards people and pets. This announcement marked merely the first police warning, not the first incident of coyotes stalking someone walking their dog, at least not in my neighborhood.  I've been hearing these stories around here for about a month now.   

Davy would know what to do about the coyotes. But I don't. And I can't go ask Maw or Paw or soak up some learnin' around the campfire, either. So I headed to our 21st century version of the campfire, the internet, and straight to the Massachusetts Wildlife page the poliece recording recommended.  Coyotes are supposed to be scared by bright lights, noise, thrown objects, sprayed water...and humans.  Apparently, these local coyotes aren't. The coyotes consider small household pets sustenance. They consider larger household pets, like our 50 pound lab mix that we have been letting let outside at night to do her duty before bed, competition. Great.

We're infringing on each other's territory, and neither of us have any plans, or options, for moving. I found myself thinking about, if not a rifle like Davy's, a weapon that I could carry when I'm walking Abby. A baseball bat? Pepper spray? I really wouldn't want to hurt coyotes. In fact, I could be arrested if I did. Coyotes are protected. And we all belong here. But I'll protect my own. And so, I bet, will they. Given those parameters, I don't think even Davy would have a solution. But here in the wild frontier of suburban New England, we're going to need to find one.