So I'm driving home from the gas station and the Target this morning. Cruise into the 'hood and see the new owners of the run-down rental on the north corner of MyStreet and Elm are working away at their renovation project. And as I'm snooping curiously to see what they've been up to over the past few days, what should I see limping up the alley but a coyote.

It's broad daylight, not the time of day coyotes come out and about. She's walking on three feet, holding her left foreleg up. It's bent at a dangerous angle: clearly it's broken.

I brake.

Our eyes connect.

She brakes.

Claro que she's thinking "Dang! I'd better turn around and run back up the alley." But of course she can't run.

I'm thinking, "Dang! What can I do?" But of course there's nothing I can do.

If I call Animal Control, they'll come out here, pretend to look around, and go away. If they catch her, they'll kill her. But they won't catch her. If I get out of my car and try to approach her, she'll either run away or try to take me out. Neither of these seems desirable.

Call me crazy, but I think a coyote is a beautiful animal.

You know how some German shepherds have ticked hairs, two or three bands of color on each hair? Coyotes are like that. They have a delicate mask on the face, one that is capable of reflecting a wide variety of expressions. One of those expressions is "I'd better run back up this alley."

They say wild dogs can't read humans and really, humans can't read wild dogs. But in that instant she looked into my face and searched my expression as clearly as Cassie the Corgi does. She sensed I wouldn't harm her, not then anyway, and at any rate I couldn't get at her from the monster machine that encased me. She didn't trust me, rightfully, me being a human. She made a decision.

I turned the corner and got out of her space. She limped across the street and continued on her way.