We awoke last night to a snarling, happy, yelping, chorus of a pack of coyotes or foxes who had undoubtedly made a feastful kill and was howling at the moon in celebration. Wild it was, just beside our home and terribly impolite startling us like that. I jumped out of bed ran outside but they were hidden from me by the dark. I listened a moment just for the thrill of it and then clapped my hands like a shot. The noise lessened with every clap until the only sound was rustling earth as their joy turned into fright flight. That’s right, they had run into the real king of the jungle. Me Tarzan—ish. Them dogs.
I came back in and realized in all the commotion to go outside I had failed to grab my pistol. An unarmed Tarzan ain't much of a Jungle King, maybe just jungle bait.
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