Outside on this cold rainy morning with the Bradford Pears huge white and fluffy as clouds in full bloom, the dogs are going wild. They can hardly stand still with their feet bouncing off the ground, their excited barking breaking the still morning.
With my eyes, I follow the direction they are pointing and there in the woods on the other side of a fallen tree is the red trickster. He has something behind that log. I have not seen Big Cat for a month now and Faded Glory has been gone since before Christmas.
I put on my boots and trek through the woods to that spot behind the log, but there is nothing there that I can see.
The Coyotes are here now. I have seen them race across the road. I have heard their hooting calls up and down the creek. They have come with the armadillos and the fire ants. They are a spirit animal of the Native Americans, the joker, the trickster, the one who stole fire from the gods and gave it to man. They are the mediator animal between life and death.
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