I’ve always considered myself a pretty good judge of character, both human and animal. I could coax a timid cat out from under the porch, convince a stubborn dog to fetch, and even manage a polite nod from the notoriously aloof neighborhood raccoon. So, when we decided to get a pet coyote, I thought, “This is it. The ultimate test of my interspecies diplomacy.”
Enter Pip. Adorable, fluffy, and possessing a seemingly endless supply of boundless, albeit slightly wild, energy. From the moment he arrived, Pip embraced our backyard with the enthusiasm of a prospector discovering gold. His favorite pastime? Digging. And not just any digging – we’re talking deep, strategic, world-changing excavation.
Now, I’m a big believer in shared experiences. If Pip is going to dedicate hours to creating subterranean marvels, why shouldn’t I join in? I pictured us, side-by-side, paws (well, my hands) working in tandem, unearthing buried treasures (or at least interesting rocks). I envisioned a bonding experience of earth-moving and shared accomplishment.
So, the other day, when Pip was deeply engrossed in what looked like the foundation for a new underground metropolis, I decided to get involved. I grabbed my trusty trowel, a pair of gardening gloves, and a spirit of camaraderie.
“Hey, Pip!” I chirped, approaching the excavation site with a friendly smile. “Looks like a good spot! Mind if I lend a paw… uh, hand?”
Pip, who had been meticulously rearranging a particularly lumpy clod of dirt, froze. His ears, which had been a vibrant radar, swiveled towards me. His tail, mid-wag with the joy of his digging, stilled. He blinked slowly, a sign I usually interpret as contentment, but this time, it felt different. More…evaluative.
I knelt down at the edge of his masterpiece, trowel poised. “See? I can be useful! I’ll help you loosen up this tough bit here.”
Pip responded by nudging a freshly dug pile of soil with his nose, effectively creating a tiny dirt wall between us. He then proceeded to dig even faster, sending a shower of earth in my general direction. It wasn’t aggressive, not with malice, but it was undeniably…exclusive.
I tried a different tactic. I pointed to a smaller, less ambitious hole he’d made earlier. “Maybe we could expand this one a bit? Make it a cozy little nook?”
Pip paused his frantic digging, looked at the smaller hole, then back at me. He then deliberately stepped into the larger, more impressive excavation, turning his back to me and resuming his work with renewed vigor. The message was clear, and it was delivered with the subtle grace of a coyote who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Translation: “This is my project, human. My vision. My sanctuary. Your assistance is… not required. And frankly, it’s a bit disruptive.”
It was a humbling moment. Here I was, with my well-intentioned human desire to connect and collaborate, being politely, yet firmly, rejected by my own pet. Pip wasn’t being rude. He was simply communicating his preference. He enjoyed the solitary pursuit of his digging endeavors. My presence, while perhaps not unwelcome in a general sense, was an unwelcome intrusion into his focused, creative process.
So, I retreated. I watched from a respectful distance as Pip continued his architectural marvels. I admired his dedication, his focus, and the sheer unadulterated joy he derived from his solitary digging.