Fauna (5 page)

“Billy!” She hated having to cry out like that, advertising her girl’s voice to any creep within earshot, but whistling never worked when he really lost his head. “Billy!” she yelled again. “Come!”

It was incredible how fast he could move. Shading her eyes against the early sun, Lily saw what had set him off. The rabbit was giving him a run for his money, showing above the grass, plunging and showing again. It must have felt its pursuer gaining; why else leap like that, springing wildly to one side? Billy wasn’t fooled. He swerved, snatching it mid-spasm from the air.

It was stupid of her to scream, stupider still to stumble through the dewy weeds while Billy shook his prey to death. She caught up in time to see him curl his lips in a slobbery, rabbit-squeezing smile. The cottontail’s back was broken—she could tell by the way it draped over Billy’s bottom jaw. He looked up at her in triumph. She brought her fist down on his back. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

When he shrank from her, dropping his prize, she felt her legs give way. Down on her knees beside him, she suddenly understood: he was hungry; starving, even. She hadn’t fed either of them since the morning before. The tears blinded her at first, but soon she saw through them to brownish fur
and grass. She laid a hand on Billy’s head. “It’s okay, boy. Go ahead.” Still he hesitated, so she pressed down with her palm, guiding his snout to the kill. “It’s okay. Eat.”

He breathed the rabbit in—at least that was how it looked. Sound was another matter. No mistaking the crunch of itty-bitty bones.

She felt someone approaching before she heard it, the ground trembling in her bones. Still on her knees, she turned to see a red-haired man pounding toward them across the field. Billy whirled and began barking, his mane standing on end. The man slowed to a stop.

“I heard a scream,” he called.

“Quiet. Quiet, Billy.” Lily stood up, wiping her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” They faced each other like a pair of surveyors, twenty metres between them.

“Okay if I come over there?”

“Why?”

“I won’t hurt you.”

She felt for her knife. “Okay.”

He advanced slowly, stopping again when he was still several paces away. Didn’t step in close to pat Billy. Didn’t even pat his leg to bring Billy to him. “Was that you screaming?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re okay, though, right? Did somebody—”

“No. Nobody.”

“Good.” He nodded, and she saw that he too was shaken.

“It was a rabbit,” she blurted. “My dog—he killed a rabbit.”

“Oh.” She saw his eyes searching the grass.

“He ate it.” Again the tears threatened. “He was hungry.”

“Ah.” He nodded again, slowly this time, thoughtfully. “Well, that’s good.”

“Good?”

“Not that he was hungry. That he got himself something to eat. It’s better than some dogs. People too, for that matter. Killing for fun.”

Lily felt the small hairs stand at the back of her neck. So far he’d restricted his gaze to her face, but it was an unnerving gaze all the same. She glanced down at Billy, surprised to find his fur lying flat, his posture relaxed.

Turning her attention back to the man, she realized he was older than she’d thought, maybe as old as thirty. He was dressed young, jeans and All Stars, a green and black Mack—the first Mack she’d seen in the city that wasn’t paired with a hard hat. Not bad-looking, but in a way where he might not know it. If he was vain about anything, it would be that hair.

“I’m Guy,” he said. “Guy Howell.”

She nodded. Why was he still there?

“You like rabbits?”

The question caught her off guard.
Not especially
was what she wanted to say, but it was hard to lie to somebody who wouldn’t look away. “I guess.”

“Me too.” He looked around then, as though he was scanning the grass for long ears. Or else making certain there was nobody close at hand.

Lily clutched the folded form of the knife inside her pocket. The bear spray was tucked in the wide game pocket that ran along her lower back. Billy was pressed up against her. Besides, this particular man—this Guy Howell—had come running when he’d heard her scream.

“You like books?”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. It stunned her—thirty, forty seconds until she figured out what it meant.
Bait
. But how had he figured her out so fast? How had he picked up on the only thing she’d been missing, the little blue bookshelf in her room? She’d found her way to the Riverdale Library on her third day in town, but Billy wasn’t allowed in, and they wouldn’t let her take anything out. You had to have an address to get a library card. You had to show ID.

“Not especially.” She managed to say it out loud this time.

“No? Huh. Somehow I figured you for a reader.”

Billy was really listing now, settling his black weight against her. She clenched her hands. “I am.”

He smiled. “Thought so.” Reaching into his back jeans pocket, he produced a small pad and pen. Wrote for a moment, then tore off the page and held it out. He let her be the one to step forward and take it.

Billy rose up the way he always did when she made a move, but still he stood easy, seemingly unconcerned. The note showed an address and a roughed-in map.
Howell Auto Wreckers
underlined twice.

“That’s my place. Gate’s locked, but you just buzz.” He returned the pad and pen to his pocket. “I’ve got plenty of books.”

Lily kept her head down, holding the little map in both hands, studying it.

“You’re welcome there any time, you and your dog.”

It turned out to be true—about the books, but also about the welcome. Neither Guy nor Stephen has ever tried to mess
with her. More than that, they’ve treated her like a friend.

Both of them are sitting at the table when she and Billy walk back in. In Guy’s hand, an old book with an elephant on the cover, some guy in a turban grinning down from its back. The title tells her nothing.
Kipling: A Selection of His Stories and Poems
.

“What the fuck is this,” she says, “storytime?”

“You guessed it,” says Guy. “Pull up a chair.”

The raccoon is old. He’s lived through more snowed-in sleep and green return than most of his kind ever know. Little wonder—he’s stronger than most, and wilier. He knows how to bide his time.

She will come. Any moment now, the human will emerge, unhook the containers from their moorings and drag them to the path. Until then, he wears the bushes like a mask.

Other raccoons have come this way recently—he can smell the fresh rub-mark of a yearling male. Cats, too. A pale tom, not paying sufficient attention, set a soft foot down behind him not long after he took up his post. It froze when he turned his eyes its way, backed out into the open before he even so much as hissed.

His vantage point is good, but he’d see even more if he sat up, leaning back on the stub where his tail used to be. It troubles him still, the absence more than the scarred-over lump itself. He’d known bites before—a male is called upon to fight for his share—but never so dirty or so deep. He saw the interloper off, only to find the damage had been done. The
ringed glory of the old male’s tail turned septic. He dragged it rotting behind him for a time, then chewed free of it one frost-hardened day. When he crawled out from under the brush pile that evening, the tail curled stinking where he’d lain.

It was a trick learning to balance without it; more than once he wobbled on a fence rail or slid from a branch, clumsy as a kit. The following winter, he felt the true measure of his loss. The fat he might have stored in its fluffy length, he made do without. Worse still, he had nothing to tuck around the chilled tip of his nose, the near-naked extremities of his feet. And yet he lived. Come mating time, he took on three young rivals and won. The female welcomed him, tail or no.

And now the world is new again. The kits he started that night are denned up with their mother somewhere—unless they and their mother are dead. Either way, the old male sits and waits.

The dragonfly doesn’t spot him, despite its bulging eyes. Intent on the hunt, it hawks and dives, hovers and dives again. Soon it wavers close to the bushes, as though daring him to snatch it from mid-air—which he does, his hand shooting out like the sticky-tipped tongue of a frog. The catch struggles in his fist. He opens his fingers in increments, rolls the kicking creature between his palms. Pressing the ruin of it to his nose, he feels a lone, still-twitching leg play over his whiskers, thin as a whisker itself. He opens his jaws, welcoming the veined resilience of its wings. Its head is a bitter nut. Its body’s bright armour guards the thinnest of meats—enough to rouse his hunger and make it cry.

He has a clear view of the containers now—two slim and two sturdy—huddled under their wooden den. The slender ones interest him most. For several nights in a row they’ve
resisted him, thwarting his hands while they wafted a maddening scent. The treasure they guard is ripe: chicken bones and pig fat, softening apples and half-eaten ears of corn. Some smells he doesn’t recognize yet finds appealing. Others speak of scraps he will cast aside.

The human has bound up her treasure tight. They use a kind of stretchy, spotted snake—only snakes are good to eat, and these are sour and impossible to chew. Hooks in place of their heads and tails, they hold the fragrant containers closed. Worse, they hold them fast to the slats of their enclosure, so he can’t even tip them on their sides. He can wait, though. He can watch and he can learn.

And here comes the teacher now.

She leaves her door wide open—tempting, but almost always more trouble than it’s worth. Besides, she’s brought a fresh bag to add to the cache. Already he can make out strains of cheese and bread, something fruity, something with leaves. Eggs—probably only the shells, but each jagged little cup holds a glossy tongueful.

Setting the bag down, she bends to the nearest container. The old raccoon rises up on his hind legs; even this he has mastered without the tripod leg of his tail. Human hands are subtle, terribly strong. Even a slight female such as this makes short work of the hook-headed serpents, releasing the container from their grip. He works his fingers in an echo of hers, but there’s a trick to it he’s missing—something about the give in that patterned length.

Never mind. Tonight’s the night when the lonely, feast-filled vessels stand unguarded, fastened with nothing but a clip any yearling could undo. He’ll wait until the street is
quiet before making his move. A flick of the fingers, a well-placed push and, one after another, they’ll spill.

The raccoon kits are finally quiet, tucked into their carrier after the day’s last ramble around the room. Stephen lies on his side on the bed above them. He hasn’t bothered to undress; he’s exhausted but knows he won’t sleep yet. His mind is alive with the jungle, the story of a boy raised by wolves.

Guy read the entire first chapter, doing the voices and everything, even singing the songs. They heard how the child Mowgli evaded the lame tiger, Shere Khan, and came to live among the Seeonee pack; how he became the pet of Bagheera the panther and Baloo the bear. Stephen had never seen Lily sit so still for so long.

He rolls onto his back, a papery crackle reminding him of the folded flyer in the seat pocket of his jeans. Sitting up, he digs for the yellow sheet and opens it. Half a minute more and curiosity trumps fatigue.

Stephen rises, passes through to the office and flattens the flyer alongside the keyboard. A wiggle of the mouse wakes the screen. He opens the browser and types in the URL.

Coyote Cop’s Blog

Monday, May 26, 2008

Well Toronto and whoever else this is my first blog ever so welcome. Why start now? Because this city is in trouble. I have one word for you. Coyotes. And if you think I’m joking you better think again.

Maybe you know about the damage they do on farms. Ask any farmer and he will be glad to tell you how many lambs or calves or chickens he has lost to coyotes this year. Maybe you have even heard about cats going missing in the suburbs or even some of the smaller dogs. Thats right. Coyotes have come to town and not only in L.A. or Vancouver where you will know if you watch the news they are running bold as anything down the open roads and biting the legs of joggers and stalking into peoples backyards to snatch not just the pets but the children too. And don’t forget those western coyotes are smaller than the ones we have here. In the old days the eastern coyote used to be called a brush wolf so that should give you an idea of how big they get.

And we’re not just talking about the suburbs anymore. Ever been to the Don Valley? I mean the lower Don. I mean practically downtown. Ever felt like you were being watched while you walked along the path down there? Well believe me you were. Maybe your thinking but isn’t the whole idea of cities that we don’t live out in the wilderness with the animals anymore? Sure. Only cities aren’t airtight. You can’t screw down the lid on Toronto the way you do on a mason jar. They get in. And its our job to get them out.

Maybe you know about what happened with wolves down in the States. They wiped them out. Why not the coyotes? Don’t think they didn’t try. So how come in
L.A. of all places coyotes are multiplying like rats? Because thats the thing about vermin. They are damn hard to get rid of. But damn hard doesn’t mean you don’t even try. Some things are worth fighting for and I don’t know about you but when the city I have chosen to call home is getting overrun by what might as well be rats as big as dogs I figure its time to do something. And one more thing. I’m going by Coyote Cop for now but you can bet one day my real name will be known. In the meantime if any of you are wondering it starts with D.