Xena and I were lumbering behind the hounds this morning when I heard a preternatural wailing rise among the cawing and honking sounds that welcome sunrise.
At first, I thought it was just me. But Xena had stopped dead in her tracks and was looking in the same direction. I was trying to figure out what was going on in the wooded hills across Melton Hill Lake. We cast a glance at each other, then back at the water, where thick columns of fog were rising up into the cold morning air. All we needed was a chainsaw-wielding maniac wearing a hockey mask.
Then it hit me. Coyotes. I’ve heard them caterwauling in Hardin Valley in the evening, but this was the first time I’d heard them at the lake in the morning. From the sound of it, there were two groups of them over there, maybe a half-mile apart, calling out to each other.
The effect was amazing. Xena and I listened for a while, then continued walking toward the hounds and the indignant protests of a turkey they’d rousted.