Jay wants to buy an old farmhouse here in rural Maine. Acres of land, waterfront property… (that’s my stipulation! If I’m living in rural Maine, this tropical island girl demands a swimming hole.) I checked out some listings online, romanticized being a farm wife, having lots of land, chickens and goats and a dog.

Later on in the evening, Jay came home with news about a nearby neighbor reporting a pack of healthy coyotes on her property. She apparently got a hold of the local guy who hunts coyotes, and he shot possibly the alpha coy. He bagged 60 lbs of coyote carcass.

60 pounds! That’s twice the weight of my young. And I’ve heard stories of packs of coyotes preying on helpless babies.

This is a sobering reality check for me, little Miss Curious about living in the country. It’s not all sunny days swimming in the lake and picking berries. I’d have to start packing a gun!

I haven’t held a gun since I was nine. I shot a few rounds off a handgun back then, but I was only trying to hit cans.

I’ve never killed a mammal. This summer I’ve killed mosquitoes and flies. I ran my car tires over a garter snake (and I cried because I didn’t mean to run it over. Snakes are beautiful!) I’m sure I’d be much more emotionally crippled by killing a mammal.

I’d have to ask my friend, Tom Cooz, all about it. He told me he shot two raccoons in the head last week.

The problem with coyotes here in Maine is that they are pretty much top of the food chain among wild beasts. I guess a bear could take them on, but bears don’t hunt for food. They mostly fish and they would only fight in self-defense.

Coyotes are so numerous in these parts! Every night I hear them howling. Not exaggerating. I’ll know it’s all over when I find myself surrounded by them, gnarly teeth bared, eyes gleaming, fur bristled. There is no gun that will get a whole pack of coyotes at once. I’ll need a whole posse to protect me.