COYOTE(S)!

That's plural. Because yesterday morning, there were three in my back hard. <--type-o and it stays.

Before I saw them, I opened the door for Potter, our Golden Retriever, who was going all kinds of cattywompus crazy and making eerie, guttural growling sounds. I thought he saw the usual squirrel or bunny. As soon as I slid open the door, I saw coyote #1, Skinny Bones Jones.

Potter took off down our deck stairs like he had a demon on his ass and would only come back when I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Cheese!! Cheese!! POTTER, CHEEEEESE!!!!" At that moment, Girly Girl yelled, "MOM!! There are THREE!!"

The Plural Coyotes were literally skipping -- no, it was more like hip-hopping, or the dance moves from the opening scene of "West Side Story" -- around like, "Yeah, whatever. Ooooh, it's a big, scary GOLDEN RETRIEVER....oooooh, I'm frightened...Hahahahaha...*high-five each other*"

Winter in Chicago so far has sucked ass. I imagine all the little mousies, squirrels and bunnies are hibernating, dead or kickin' it at their condo in Boca; the pickins are slim. Skinny Bones Jones had crazy in the eyes. And a lame back leg. These boys was hungry, hurtin' and hardass.

"Warrierrrrsss....come out and play-ay-ayyyy...." Seriously. Carl brandished a baseball bat and Magnus looked like he knew how to use those nunchucks.

I held Potter's collar to keep him from pawing and clawing at the door. In the five years he's been our baby, never have I heard him make sounds like he made yesterday. Deep, dark, fierce rumblings from some deeply-rooted protective canine instinct?

For the rest of the morning, long after SBJ, Carl and Magnus had moved on, Potter sat on our deck, staring into the distance. Looking as much like Mufasa from "Lion King" as he could. He was all, "Yeah! And don't come back!"

Golden Retrievers. Who knew??