First thing I did was make the coyotes carry around at all times for my personal use a tin of dip, a bottle opener, cigarettes, and a lighter. And the lighter had to be blue. That was important. When all the stores in Dallas ran out of blue lighters, the coyotes had to go to Garland to find them. If the coyotes are going to say that was inhumane, then maybe they should learn to avoid this human. That’s all I’ll say about that.
Then I made the coyotes drink milk. Lots and lots of milk. I know that’s old school, but I don’t mind being labeled old school.
Did I make the coyotes do an elephant walk? Do I even know what an elephant walk is? We can let the courts sort this out, if that’s the direction you want to go. Let’s just say the Ringling Bros. got nothing on me.
You know what happens when you put 20 coyotes in a darkened room and then light that room with only a strobe and force the coyotes to sort 3 pounds of ice cream sprinkles by color? Ask the coyotes.
This next one wasn’t my idea. The Northwood Republican Women voted on the song at their monthly meeting. I made the coyotes listen to “Party in the U.S.A.” on a loop until one of them could eat three Saltine crackers in under a minute. Spoiler alert: it’s impossible to eat three Saltine crackers in under a minute. Even coyotes can’t do it. After five hours of nonstop Miley Cyrus and enough crackers to fill an Eat Pray Love–themed cruise ship, the coyotes were second-guessing their life choices. And they looked super puffy.
Speaking of old school, I did the thing with the cinder blocks from the Will Ferrell movie. I don’t care if you think it’s not funny. The coyotes sure didn’t.
I made the coyotes listen to Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the U.S.A.” on a nonstop loop for five hours.
There was more. I trashed my house and made the coyotes clean it up. I texted them all at 4 am with instructions to immediately visit Clyde Barrow’s grave, stipulating that none of them could go home until they’d all shown up. I made them eat laxatives and wear diapers while they played soccer. I made them memorize the Dallas city charter, steal the flag from No. 9 green at the Dallas Country Club, assemble a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle depicting diagrams of every grammatically correct sentence ever uttered by Jerry Jones while they rode a DART train to Love Field, smash a Greek amphora at the Dallas Museum of Art, and eat chili with beans in it. I made them stay off social media.
In the end, though, hazing the coyotes was a total failure. Rather than remind them how big and scary I am and force them to avoid Dallas humans, it instead brought the coyotes closer together and created lifelong bonds that I fear will only help them in their future endeavors, both personal and professional.
So I had to go with my fallback plan. I showed them a listing for a 3-2 ranch built in 1960. The kitchen needed a total remodel, but it was in a good school feeder pattern. When the coyotes saw what housing costs in Dallas, they all moved to Flower Mound.
This story originally ran in the August issue of D Magazine. Email [email protected].
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