The Time I Accidentally Adopted a Coyote

---

Oh, man, okay. It's 1 a.m., I'm on my third glass of cabernet, and I've finally hit the sweet spot where I don't give a flying fuck about embarrassment. This story needs to be told, and I guess it might as well be told now.

So, I moved out to the country a few months ago, right? Got myself this cute little A-frame on a couple acres, right in the heart of Bob Ross painting country. Beautiful spot. I'm the type of person who enjoys nature from the comfort of a screened-in porch, but this place? It's my own damn slice of wilderness heaven.

One morning I'm sipping my coffee and looking out the window, and I see this dog. Craggy-looking, scrawny thing. I felt bad for it, I really did. It was probably abandoned, it happens a lot around here. I decided to do the right thing, you know? Put out a bowl of food.

So, I did, and the dog ate. He started showing up regularly. And when I say regularly, I mean this guy had a schedule tighter than a Swiss watch. 7:30 a.m., without fail, there he was, sitting by the bowl, looking in my window with these sad, puppy-dog eyes.

One day, I muster up the courage and go outside to try to pet him. My hand is shaking, but he's cool about it. He let me touch him, so obviously, my mind starts having visions of us becoming best friends, taking walks together, Netflix and chilling.

I did what everyone in my situation would do. I decided to adopt him, name him Rusty, and make him an official resident of my cabin.

Here's where shit begins to curveball.

My friend Crystal comes over one day. Crystal is like this hyper-hippie, vegan, animal rights activist, and she’s got a degree in Animal Behavior or some shit. She steps one foot in my cabin, sees Rusty, and her eyes nearly pop out of her head.

"Um, that's a fucking coyote, dude."

I laugh, because what else can you do in such a situation, right? Crystal doesn’t crack a smile. She’s dead serious.

Turns out, Rusty was not a dog. Rusty was a full-grown, bonafide, wild-ass coyote.

My mind went blank. I was in denial. I was like, "No, Crystal, you've been sniffing way too many essential oils. That's a dog." But the seed of doubt was planted. I started Googling.

Google Images confirmed it. Rusty was a coyote.

In my defense, coyotes aren’t common in the city, okay? The closest thing we get are those purse dogs that look like they need a caffeine hit. How the hell was I supposed to know what a coyote looked like up close?

So, there I was, living with a fucking coyote. I was feeding it, sleeping under the same roof as it, and even trying to teach it to fetch. Fuck, at one point I even pondered getting Rusty a collar!

I had to laugh at the absurdity. I mean, how do you explain to people that you've been adopting a coyote thinking it was a dog?

Luckily, Rusty seemed to have a sense of boundaries. He never tried to come inside the house. He just hung out in the yard, ate the food I gave him and gave me those intense, coyote eyes.

I informed the local wildlife services, and they were actually pretty chill about it. They came, sedated Rusty and took him to a reserve where he could run free and do coyote things. I was a little sad, I won't lie. I kind of got used to the bugger.

Anyway, that's my story. My friends still give me shit about it. The local bar has a running joke about "coyote lady." My Tinder bio currently reads, "I once adopted a coyote thinking it was a dog. Swipe right if you like wild women."

And me? I'm just here sipping wine, wishing Rusty the best in his new coyote life, wondering how much it would cost to buy a pair of spectacles.