Coyote Ugly

Time is running out. My cramped hands clutch the washcloth, but despite putting my back into the scrubbing, it’s not going fast enough. Daisy lies with her head on her front legs, watching intently, seemingly as nervous as I am. It shows in her eyes and expressive brow ridges. If she could help, she would. “Don’t worry, Daisy. You’re a good girl.” Her tail thumps twice.

A dark cloud swells into the water as I swish the soiled cloth. I attack a new spot, pulling the bucket with me. A box fan blows toward the open window, helping to dissipate the funk. If I can finish scrubbing the last few smudges, it should be okay. That spark of hope is extinguished by the crunching of tires on gravel. Rising quickly from my knees, I carry the bucket to the back door and toss the water into the grass. I stir the pot of chili, hoping its fragrance has filled the house enough to disguise the odor of feces.

Back in the living room, I turn off the fan and aim it at Frank’s recliner. I drop a dry towel onto the last area I scrubbed, pressing it into the carpet with my foot as the car door slams. I toss the towel into the laundry hamper and wait in the hall as footsteps sound on the porch and the door swings open.

My breath catches. Will he smell chili and follow his nose to it? I almost wish I were a Christian so I could ask Jesus to intervene. Instead, I use a light tone. “Dinner’s ready and there’s a beer in the freezer.”

“Why does it stink in here?” His olfactory sense is at its peak before he starts drinking. He’s got his nose in the air like a bloodhound tracking a scent.

“It’s nothing, I cleaned it up.”

He glares. “Cleaned what up, Susan?” My name is a hiss.

“Dai—Jax had an accident. She had diarrhea and was at the door whining to get out. I couldn’t get it open in time. But it’s all gone now.”

“She knows better than to shit in my house. Why didn’t she go out the goddamn dog door?” Daisy stands quietly, watching him. We both know that tone of voice.

“She didn’t have time. She was sick, Frank. Ready for beer and chili?”

“Did you punish her, so she knows she fucked up?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before closing the distance to kick her hard in the abdomen with his booted foot.

My stomach clenches, and I struggle to hide my disgust as Daisy yelps and runs from the room. It had been Frank’s idea to get a dog three years ago. He wanted a dog to kill any coyotes that came near the house, as payback for the slaughter of our laying hens. Never mind that he left the coop door open, giving the coyotes access to the poor chickens. Frank wasn’t willing to pay for the full-blooded pit bull he wanted, so he scoured local shelters, inspecting the available lab and boxer mixes—the North Carolina euphemism for the many dogs with pit bull in their family tree. He chose Daisy based on her brawny build and stubby ears cropped so close to her head they looked like tiny horns. Even though she was eleven months old and answered to Daisy, Frank renamed her Jax and called her stupid when she didn’t respond to the new name. I call her Daisy when the two of us are alone.

It became obvious within a week that “Jax” had no inclination to kill anything. She cowered when she heard coyotes howling. Her gentle nature angered Frank. When he returned from the garage each day, Daisy would run to greet him and be waved off with a grunt and a stomp. She learned caution and, like me, now keeps a wary eye on the man she must have hoped would be her friend.

I have no appetite. “You ready for dinner? The hospital called earlier. They need me to cover for one of the other nurses tonight, so I have to leave in an hour.”

Frank shrugs his indifference and sits down at the dining table, waiting to be served. His work shirt is smeared with stains, and crescents of grease outline his nails. I heap diced onion and shredded cheddar onto a bowl of steaming chili, placing it in front of him with a sleeve of saltines before grabbing the beer. He likes the first one icy. After that, refrigerator temp is fine until he moves on to the brown stuff.

He blows on a spoonful of chili. “One day, I’ll take that worthless dog to the woods and shoot it.”

“How’s the chili?”

A grunt. “Not that she’s worth a bullet. She’s ugly as a coyote.”

He’s said the same thing about me. I don’t correct his misphrasing of the saying. Why sharpen the knife for him? “I’ll ask my sister if she’d mind me bringing Jax.”

Another grunt. I’m leaving for Daytona Sunday to spend two weeks with my sister, Carrie, who’s been dealing with a benign, slow-growing meningioma. When she started having headaches again last month, the surgeon said it was time to remove it. Her surgery is scheduled for Tuesday.

I shower and slip into clean scrubs before putting away the leftovers. I don’t see Daisy on my way out. I suspect she’s lying low. 

***

At the ER, I spend twenty minutes rounding with one of the nurses coming off the 7AM-to-7PM shift. He fills me in on the cases I’m taking over, including a forty-six-year-old marathoner who went into paroxysmal atrial flutter on a training run. She has a rapid ventricular rate that’s not responding to the diltiazem drip she’s been on for nearly five hours. As soon as we can assemble a team—and the cardiac resident can convince her that it’s not healthy to have her heart pounding at 165 to 180 beats per minute for hours on end—we’ll cardiovert her. She’s in denial that her heart, fit from a lifetime of running, needs intervention. I spent four years in the cardiac ward. The hardest part of my job was having to tell a patient that their heart, an organ most of us take for granted, wasn’t working right. A racing heart will eventually exhaust itself and cease to beat. If she doesn’t let us treat her, she has about three days to live.

In another bed, I have a twenty-four-year-old male who presented with violent vomiting secondary to suspected alcohol intoxication. He’d been drinking since he got home from work. I put in an intravenous line, draw a sample for a complete blood count, panel, and blood alcohol level, then start a saline drip to counter dehydration. As I administer a dose of metoclopramide for the nausea and vomiting, I ask what he’s had to drink.

“Beer.”

“How many did you drink today?”

“Three.”

“Three beers?”

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen beers?”

I wait as he vomits. “Three eighteens.”

“Three eighteen-packs?”

“Yes.”

That sounds about right.

“Natty Daddy. It’s cheap at the Walmart.”

It also has an impressive 8% alcohol by volume. I’m familiar with the brand. Frank keeps the bottom shelf of our refrigerator stocked with it and starts drinking as soon as he gets home.

A few minutes after midnight, the growling of my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten in more than twelve hours. Remembering why I skipped dinner leads me to think about things I’d rather not. Like how Frank’s drinking and lashing out is getting worse. The viciousness of the kick he gave Daisy today is concerning.

I grab a slice of pizza and a large black coffee from the hospital cafeteria and sit next to windows overlooking a dark courtyard to text Carrie.

Are you still up?

Of course.

I pop in my earbuds and call her. “How are you feeling? Ready for Tuesday?”

“Oh, yeah. I got a mani-pedi today. They really outdid themselves. I have a tiny American flag on each nail so I’m ready for the Fourth. David loves them.”

“I don’t mean to rain on your patriotic parade, but they’re going to remove the flag from at least one of your nails so the anesthesiologist can monitor the color of your nail bed.”

“Why do they have to ruin my nails?”

“Because it’s their job to keep your butt alive. Hey, would it be okay to bring Daisy with me?”

“Sure. We love that sweet girl.” She takes a quick inhale. “Oh man, I can’t wait to tell David that you’ll be driving Miss Daisy.”

“It’s still hard to believe we’re related, much less identical twins.” She makes jokes, and I act like I don’t find them funny. It’s what a big sister does. Even if I’m only two hours older.

“On a serious note, Suze, thank you for coming to hold my hand. It means everything.”

***

My last case of the night is a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy with heavy bleeding suggestive of placenta previa. I empathize with what she must be feeling, since I miscarried three years ago and we lost our baby boy. I wanted to try again, but Frank decided against starting a family, and we adopted Daisy instead.

The air is hot and muggy as I exit the hospital, and it’s only 7:15 AM. I stop by the grocery store to get the ingredients for lasagna and meat loaf, foods that freeze well, so Frank will have plenty to eat while I’m gone. Today will be dedicated to cooking, cleaning, napping, and packing so I can leave early tomorrow morning.

The sounds of gunfire and whinnying horses come from the house. As I open the front door, the stink of stale beer rides the air out like a body surfer. It smells like a dive bar. Frank is passed out in his recliner, snoring loudly, surrounded by discarded beer cans. A mostly empty bottle of whiskey sits next to the remote. Cowboys jerk reins, maneuvering their horses to get a better shot at the posse riding behind them. I cross the living room and turn off the television. Frank continues to snore. There are splatters of blood on his arms and shirt, but I see no visible wounds and don’t have the energy to care about what trouble he got into. I’ll deal with him later. I need to put away groceries and start food prep.

As I walk into the kitchen, the bags drop from my arms, crashing to the floor. Near the door to the back yard, with its heavy-flapped dog entrance, Daisy’s body lies in a pool of blood. The door and the adjacent cabinets and backsplash are streaked with arcing patterns of splattered blood, and a blood-smeared bat lies next to the pulpy mass of her head. I drop to my knees to caress her neck as a moan rises from deep in my body. 

I cry until there are no tears left, and then I lie next to Daisy for a last hug. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I’m aware of is Frank’s voice.

“Hey. What are you doing down in that mess? Get up.”

Blinking, I push myself to a sitting position, ignoring the ache in my side from lying on the hard floor. Frank frowns as he takes in the spilled groceries. I speak tentatively, half hoping this is a mistake, a bad dream. “Why did you do this?”

He stabs his finger at the floor near the back door. “She puked three times. The bitch knew better.” He sounds angry, not defensive, not apologetic. I keep my eyes on his face. I don’t want to see sweet Daisy again, even in my peripheral vision. I dig a fingernail into my palm. I should have anticipated this. I should have tried to find a kennel that could board her for the night. Daisy deserved better.

“You kicked her so hard, Frank. You might have fractured her liver, or damaged her spleen or pancreas. That’s probably why she vomited.”

He shrugs and turns to leave. “You’d better get to work cleaning this up.”

With a jolt of anger, I stand up. “What has happened to you? Why are you being so cruel?”

Over his shoulder he says, “And put away those groceries.”

Thoughts black as crows fly through my mind. In their wake, a fresh sense of clarity and purpose drives me to snatch my phone and cram it into the side pocket of my scrubs. Before heading toward the back door, I search for my keys. There they are, on the floor by the refrigerator. I’m reaching to pick them up as Frank comes through the kitchen door. His eyes narrow. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I freeze, drawing my elbows tight against my body. Before I can answer, he crosses the floor in long strides, swats the keys from my hand, and shoves me backward. I’ve cared for victims of domestic violence, heard their stories, witnessed their fear and confusion, without ever imagining it could happen to me. My willful naivete slips away, replaced by a sharp pain across the back of my skull. Everything goes dark.

***

Gradually, I become aware of motion and the hum of tires on asphalt. It’s nighttime, and the flash of street lamps provides enough light for me to determine that I’m in the back of our SUV. Daisy’s body is beside me. Raising myself onto an elbow brings vertigo and nausea. Sour bile trickles from my mouth, and I lower myself back down. Tears run from my eyes and across throbbing temples to dampen my hair. I can’t remember what happened after Frank and I started arguing about Daisy. That chills me, because it most likely means that he hit me in the head hard enough to cause a concussion and retrograde amnesia.

The dark is now complete, no longer splintered by streetlights. He’s going to leave me in the middle of nowhere—punishment for daring to criticize his behavior. Fighting panic, I grope for my cell phone and relax a bit when my fingers close around it. Now, I can only pray that he won’t pat me down before he leaves. If the signal is strong enough, I’ll call the police as soon as he’s gone. If not, I’ll walk until I either get a signal, or discover a house.

A bit longer, and the vehicle slows to a stop. From the front seat, Frank sounds very much like a tour bus driver announcing a stop to passengers. “We’re here!” He opens the hatch and removes Daisy’s body from the vehicle. I try to lift my head to follow her, but the vertigo returns, so I lie quietly until a hand wraps around each of my ankles, and I’m dragged to the rear bumper. In the glow of our taillights, I look into the hazel eyes of my husband, the same eyes I lost myself in on the beach on Topsail Island seventeen years ago. The pupils are dilated in the dim light, their blackness impenetrable and inhospitable. I am not welcome inside those eyes any longer. Frank grunts and throws me over his shoulder. Another string of bile dribbles from my mouth to run down his jeans. Leaves crunch and twigs snap under his boots. The aroma of pine resin and damp undergrowth grows strong. Frank twists to pull his shoulder out from under me and I land prone on the forest floor next to Daisy’s body. He rolls me onto my back and looks down, squinting. “Are you still with me?”

“You don’t have to do this.” My voice is raspy, my throat burns. “Can I have some water?”

“I’m not doing time for some bitch dog. This is your fault.”

“Plea—” Before I can finish, he kicks me in the head, and I confront, much too late, my own denial. I can no longer run from the truth of what my husband has become. Yet again, the world goes black.

***

The sound of beating wings rouses me. It’s daylight. In the canopy, oak and beech leaves sway. Two large birds stand, one on either side, just at the edge of my vision. They’re turkey vultures. Unlike black vultures, who find food using visual cues, turkey vultures follow the scent of decay, which means that it’s been at least a day since I was dumped. Thankfully, I can’t smell anything, or I’d probably vomit again. The birds watch, still as death. After a moment, the one to my right takes a cautious step forward, then another. The second approaches, and the two of them wait at my side, restrained and respectful. They have a job to do, I know that, but I didn’t expect them to be so gracious while playing mortician.

The vultures pluck at my scrub top, exposing flesh. When they start on my intercostal muscles, there’s no pain; it feels like I’m being tickled. Carrie used to tickle my sides when we were young. What lie did Frank tell her to explain why I’m not there?

One vulture tugs at my cheek while the other starts on my eyes, popping one, then the other. My vision is extinguished. For the rest of the day, I hear vultures arrive and feel them expose more of my body, working at me methodically. Finally, the murmur of heavy wings tells me they’ve gone.

Crickets chirp. It’s nighttime. Something approaches cautiously, a light rustle of leaves the only sound it makes. Another quiet creature joins the first. Gas hisses as teeth puncture my bloated belly. There’s snarling as the viscera are torn loose, scavengers fighting over the organ delicacies. One of them pushes forcefully against my diaphragm, scooting my body along the ground. I hear a pop followed by pressure in my chest, which is quite different from the tickle the vultures made as they ate the muscles between ribs. The tension eases, leaving an emptiness. My heart has been yanked from my thorax. A snarl sounds next to my ear, followed by a low, guttural growl. I hear the dominant animal, the one who’s won my heart, tear and chew at the ball of cardiac muscle.

I’m thinking of Carrie again, hoping she kept her surgery appointment and no longer harbors the meningioma, when my vision returns and I see a coyote standing two feet away. It moves close, and I see its eyes glinting in the dim moonlight as it extends its head to lick my face in a submissive manner. The coyote then removes a stringy chunk of quadriceps muscle hanging loose from the femur of what looks like a human corpse. I’m disoriented by the fact that my perspective is now external to what I assume is my body, since I see Daisy’s carcass nearby. I cast my eyes downward and see slender legs covered in tawny fur. I will the legs to move and they oblige. I am in control of what seems to be a coyote—the coyote who recently ate my heart. My mind races with the possibilities. The last thing I want to do right now is continue watching this coyote’s mate or other pack member tearing muscle from the leg of my corpse. It’s unpleasant, but more importantly, the clarity I’d felt when I decided to run from the house has returned. There’s something I need to do for Daisy. And for myself.

I lope steadily toward my house with the unerring confidence of a creature of the night. I watch from the front yard as the light from the flat screen flickers across the living room. Frank seems to have fallen asleep in the recliner again. I head for the back of the house and push quietly through Daisy’s dog door into the kitchen. Unwashed dishes clutter the table, and the air reeks of stale chili, but I’m not there for leftovers. Under a blanket of alcohol fumes, Frank lies careless as a newborn, limbs loose, chest rising and falling. He snores on each inhalation and occasionally stops breathing altogether before resuming with a snort. I tried to get him to go in for a sleep test and be treated for sleep apnea, but he ignored my advice.

Jumping easily onto the chair, I stand with my front legs on his chest. He doesn’t stir, doesn’t disturb the lengthy strand of drool hanging from the side of his mouth. I lean in and rip his throat, quick and precise, snatching carotids and trachea loose from their moorings in an instant. His eyes flash open, but nothing of the Frank I fell in love with remains in them. That Frank left long ago when he gave up on our marriage. I wonder what he sees. Does he see me in these eyes? Does he see a reflection of his own nature? Or does he just see an ugly coyote? Whichever it is, he doesn’t try to shove me away. Air whistles through the hole in his neck.

I count each spurt of blood, curious to discover how many heartbeats it will take to empty his body. An average adult male, which Frank is, has five liters of blood in his body, a heart rate of seventy beats per minute, and a stroke volume of seventy milliliters per contraction of the left ventricle. The math says it takes seventy beats, or approximately one minute, for those five liters to be pumped around the body and back to the heart, but Frank is no longer a closed system. After eighteen impressive arterial jets, his pulse slows, and the geysers of bright red become less like Old Faithful and more like crude oil bubbling from the ground.

Time to go. I pass through Daisy’s door into the clear night, and run. No loping this time, I’m covering ground as fast as I can, fueled by the urgency of some biological clock. My body is powerful and efficient. My breath comes easily. This must be how the marathoner feels when she runs. I hope she’s accepted her truth and let the doctors treat her. Back in the woods, I slow as I reach the site of my corpse, sniffing the air for danger. I approach Daisy’s body. The vultures have worked on her, too. She slides easily across the forest floor. I place her once beautiful head on my denuded hip and pull what’s left of my hand to cover it.

The feeling of a held breath finally being released lets me know that I’m done. Carrie will get closure when they locate my remains. She can mourn and get on with her life. The coyote, now back in possession of its free will, moves quietly away. There’s a soft rustling as dozens of carrion beetles scuttle about my body, working on the last bits of muscle and sinew. A snail rasps against my humerus, mining for calcium, as I drift into peaceful nothingness.