Chris Pellizzari

The Condo Coyote

I thought I had moved up in the world, an expensive condo in DuPage County far away from the Chicago apartment near the forest preserve I used to know. I didn’t think they allowed coyotes in these suburban parts. This is the land of private property. The animals of DuPage County sense that and they keep away. But not the coyote. 

He has a face carved into the shape of a knife by some forgotten ancient Native American desert god. It’s a face that can wedge and cut into the most private parts of property. It can wedge its face through some gap in the fence and the body somehow follows. It is the knife face that can scare away nosy old women if it has to. I see him now on my midnight walk around my condo complex. He looks at me for a second then looks away. 

I saw enough in his eyes to see they are beautiful. They cannot define suffering. He is hungry but his eyes don’t show it, or show beyond the suffering itself, the way human eyes do. They are eyes that expect the hunger and suffering to end soon, maybe within the next five minutes. I’ve seen a few squirrels around here. There is a beauty to that amber naivety. They are cold and indifferent, but very much alive. More alive than human eyes. More aware of the right now. 

My mother died three years ago. His mother probably died too but he is unaware she is dead. You would never know he had a mother by the way he moves. 

I walk past him slowly and quietly and he stretches out on cool, wet grass. It rained only thirty minutes before. I gather that’s why he’s here. He is long and lean and he is the only mammal I can think of that looks like he can truly pray. He has the body for prayer. He’s in a spot on the lawn near the fence I don’t think I ever saw any human occupy since I’ve lived here. No human has ever stepped foot on that very spot. He seems to know this and he claims the spot as his for the remainder of the night. 

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Chris Pellizzari's work can be found at Lake Effect, Citron Review, and Compressed Arts.