Coyote Chewpies

I have never seen a litter of Coyote pups in their den, or even out and about. No doubt they bark and whine a lot after birth, when hungry or feisty or bored. Poor mom and dad coyote! I bet, though, that no coyote parents as lucky as were a pair in the Nevada desert in 1986. They received a gift of a chewpie or two to keep little yowlers quiet.

We were coming back from one of our legendary car camping trips when this happened. Our tour had taken us camping and future job hunting to Chama, New Mexico, Crested Butte and Gunnison, Colorado. More events from this trip will be told later. Having eaten wonderful donuts in Grand Junction, Colorado, and blasted across the Utah desert we were, by later afternoon, into the rather parched and sunburnt Nevada desert on the way to Ely. Our goal was to spend an unusually luxurious night in a motel there. Having been in the car all day, nerves were frayed, the inhabitants were hot and tired and boredom had reared its ugly head. Pop was pooped from “telling us a story” and Kate was at the wheel. (Seems like she drove a lot!)

Becca had been in the habit of ALWAYS having a favorite pacifier (chewpie) or six, laying around to soothe frazzled nerves and the like. I had rigged up a chewpie lanyard using a WW I army pistol lanyard so when she fell asleep or became occupied and it was expelled the pacifier would not land on the less-than-pristine floor of the car, or ground, etc. This part of the afternoon on our car trips was prime chewpie use time and Becca was going at it with a vengeance. Cece, by now almost 10, decided to help Mom and Pop with the heretofore unsuccessful “You don’t need a pacificer anymore” campaign. She told a charming tale of a baby coyote named Bob and suggested to Becca that the poor baby coyotes out in the desert weren’t as lucky as Becca was. They did not have chewpies and wouldn’t it be a great idea to give them some since Becca was a big girl and did not need them anymore?

Silence, profound and thoughtful, reigned in the van and all eyes were on the little car-seat bound figure. Suddenly, with a “Here baby coytees” (actual pronunciation), a chewpie flashed out the side window of the van and rolled into the margin of the desert by the roadside. Asking me to unhook her “back-up” chewpie from the lanyard, she hurled that one out the window with a little laugh.

I am grateful that a ticket-hungry Nevada State Trooper was not following us that afternoon and we did not get cited for littering. Also, if I remember correctly, that night in the motel, a miraculous spare chewpie was found in Becca’s suitcase and withdrawals were appeased. The exact date that weaning from pacifiers happened eludes me, but this event is forever etched in my mind. I am sure that somewhere along Highway 95, in eastern Nevada, there is a faded sign, written in coyote-ese, saying: “Thanks Becca, for sharing!”