Henry is gone. The Illegal Chihuahua is gone.

I can’t write too much about this now, but here it is:

Last Friday I had company for morning coffee, people from afar whom I’ve known for close to 25 years. Like all of us, they have their ups and downs, but perhaps because we originally met and lived together in Santa Barbara, they seem to bring with them that perpetual sun, the glittering, surfer-ridden Pacific waves, and the cactuses and flowers. We laughed and shared memories, all while Henry, the Illegal Chihuahua who just loved company, ran around bringing his Teddy, Ducky, and the Pink Panther for someone to throw.

When they left, I packed both dogs up for their daily walk before getting down to work (in the summers I take them out in the morning), drove to the adjoining town, and stopped in a lay-about that leads down to the woods and an assortment of trails. I knew just what trail to take, the one in the western part of that conservation land that would take us to pools. In the summers I always think of shade and water for the dogs.

Three of us climbed up north, Aussie leading the way, as usual, the little dog by my feet. Suddenly, perhaps 10 minutes from the pools, we heard a rustle. I paused, Henry turned and ran back, then up a western slope, Aussie after him. It’s usually Aussie who runs first and he follows on his shorter legs, but this time he led the way.

I yelled immediately for them to come back, then ran after them. The slope was wooded, lots of trees and tree stumps, branches in my face. And then I heard loud, strangled mewls. Aussie’s going after a fawn, I thought with horror. I ran as hard as I could, nettles scratching my left arm, brambles at my face. I looked up and there was Aussie, looking down at me.

It’s not Aussie, I realized, it’s Henry. I had no idea what happened, just urged those strong, 76-year-old legs on, and when I reached the top, I stood by her and stared straight into the eyes of two coyotes. One stood behind the other, both less than 10 feet away from us. I noticed a movement on the right and saw a third sidle away.

My heart stopped beating. Where’s Henry?

We both stared at the two coyotes, and they stared back.  I always thought that coyotes were afraid of human beings, but while I’d run into singles, I’d never run into a pack in the 24 years I’d been walking these forests. These two were not running. Perhaps they were sizing Aussie up, wondering how to get to her.

I shouted at them. Slowly, almost thoughtfully, they retreated and went up the slope. That’s when I saw a fourth coyote looking down at us.

Henry was gone.

I stayed atop that hill for an hour, looking everywhere for his body. Aussie sniffed and sniffed, but there was nothing there, not even a drop of blood. The fourth coyote came down somewhat north of us and I hurried towards where it was headed, wondering if somehow the little dog had been thrown or left there and the coyote was coming to retrieve it, but there was nothing there, either, and the coyote soon disappeared.

After this I found my way slowly to the trail, turned back to where I’d left the car, and found our way home, Aussie never leaving my side. Drove home and told my housemate about this. Won’t describe this scene, just that she hurried into her car to go back there and I followed. She rushed into the conservation land, we lost her, and I did what she had begged me to do, go back there and find him.

I found where the dogs had left the trail and climbed my way up again, re-living that scene of running up and up as fast and hard as I could, hearing those terrible mewling gasps, wishing for the only time in my life that I had a gun, and dismayed by how those legs couldn’t carry me fast enough. There was no one up there. Not a trace of Henry.

When I finally came back down to the trail and tried to find my way to the car, I got lost. I walked in the wrong direction down trails I’d known for a long time, made the wrong turns, checked maps, then rechecked them. Finally, I stopped. It hit me that I was in shock, my brain wasn’t working.

Just then, a policeman called me. He’d arrived to help find my housemate. He’d found her and asked how I was doing. I thanked him and said that I would find my way. He hesitated, agreed, and added that he’d be back in two hours to check if the car was still there. If it was, he’d call for reinforcements.

“Yes, if my car is still there, you can get a search party,” I told him gratefully. Breathed deeply, paused some more, and then, slowly and carefully, found the way out of the conservation land and to my car, and came home.

I can write a lot more about this—thoughts and impressions are swirling in my mind—but not right away. I was warned not to do it, not to trap an experience in words where they remain solid and unchanged. Just now I recall how Aussie wanted to get rid of the Illegal Chihuahua, as she called him, and get him deported. Every minute something new comes to mind.

Let it all swirl. Let it make no sense, a hodge-podge of mental pictures, emotions, and deep bursts of grief. Let it do what it does, don’t summarize it, and for heaven’s sake don’t give any Zen platitudes about life and death. Let it be for a while longer. What had Flint Sparks shared with me a few weeks ago: How willing are you to let this be as simple as possible?

And it hurts.

It only occurred to me later that this was one of the ambushes coyotes are famous for.  Coyotes are as silent as could be and that rustle was no accident. The pack had sent down a scout that purposely made some noise, got everyone’s attention, Henry ran after it, Aussie after Henry, and I last of all. He brought both dogs up to the pack.

But none of those things were in my mind when it happened. You run and run, yell and shout, hear those horrific sounds and realize you won’t make it in time.

Late that night, totally exhausted, I tried to sleep. Suddenly, my upper legs, both right and left, started throbbing. I’ve had cramps in my lower legs and know what to do to lessen the pain, but this was different, I’d never suffered this in the upper legs before. The only thing that helped, slowly and painfully, was to get myself up to a seated position, carefully reach for a second pillow, and sit rather than lie.

I understood that this was probably in reaction to five hours of walking and climbing, but a voice inside reminded me: You cursed your legs for not running and climbing fast enough, and in return they’re hurting you back.

After that night the legs didn’t hurt again, but my housemate says that she can hear me in her own separate room, across two closed doors, having nightmares during the nights.