A Pup Called Trouble Read online

  Dedication

  For Charlene:

  moon sister, coyote and opossum lover,

  always up for an adventure

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: Eyes Wide Open

  2: Swift, Pounce, and Star

  3: Trouble

  4: The Makers

  5: The Plan

  6: Stowaway

  7: Forest of Stone

  8: Mischief

  9: Around the Next Corner

  10: A Bird’s-Eye View

  11: Officer Vetch

  12: What’s in a Name

  13: Amelia and Rosebud

  14: Coyote Dreams

  15: Trouble on a Train

  16: The Wild in the City

  17: Wildborn

  18: Minette

  19: Close Encounter

  20: Trouble with Swans

  21: High Jinks and Shenanigans

  22: Mornings with Minette

  23: Hiding in Plain Sight

  24: The Place of the Once Wild

  25: The Scent of Home

  26: The Plan

  27: News

  28: Finding Trouble

  29: “The Death of You”

  30: Wanted!

  31: Convergence

  32: A Lot Less Trouble

  33: Vetch’s Plan

  34: The Patron Saint of Opossums

  35: Bon Voyage

  36: North Star

  37: Coyote Moon

  Acknowledgments

  Critter Notes

  About the Author

  Books by Bobbie Pyron

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Eyes Wide Open

  On an early spring day, in a den tucked beneath the roots of an old oak tree, four coyote pups were born.

  During the first week, they nursed and slept just like all newborn puppies do.

  All except one.

  Unlike the other pups, one member of the Singing Creek Pack was born with eyes wide open and ears—no bigger than thumbnails—twitching with curiosity.

  He heard the shhh, shhh, shhh of the wind wandering in the trees. He turned toward the caw! caw! of a crow. His blue eyes widened. Light! Light dappled by leaves danced above and beyond.

  With a tiny squeak of excitement, the coyote pup left the warmth of his sleeping mother’s side. He scrabbled and stumbled on wobbly legs across the cool dirt floor of the den and up the tunnel toward the light.

  With one last scramble, the little pup pulled himself up and emerged, blinking, from the den. He sat on his fat rump and lifted his tiny nose to the air. So many scents! Not his mother’s deep, comforting musk or the milky sweetness of his brother and sisters or the rich, dark smell of the earth.

  Here was the scent of green leaves just unfurling, the sap rising in the trees. Here, the air was rich with the smell of feathers, fur, tiny green shoots pushing up through wet ground and the last pools of snow.

  He stood and turned his ears toward a sound: a faint rustling in the grass. He wiggled his nose. Something warm and furry scratched in the dirt. The little coyote trembled with barely contained excitement. Although the pup was only days old, thousands of years of coyote instinct coursed through his veins. He was, after all, a hunter.

  The pup took one step and then another out into the sunlight. He closed his eyes against the unaccustomed bright, so he did not see the great, wide form of an eagle flying low across the meadow.

  But he did hear the bloodcurdling hunting cry of the bird.

  The pup squealed in fear. He turned to run back to the safety of the den.

  He felt the swoosh of the enormous bird’s wings. He looked up into fierce, hungry eyes, something he would never forget. The pup pressed his belly against the ground as the eagle hurtled toward him.

  “No!” came an angry bark.

  The pup’s father hurled himself between his son and the eagle. The eagle’s outstretched talons scraped across the shoulders of the larger coyote.

  The pup watched in amazement as his father wheeled and, with barely the flick of an ear, leaped up and grabbed the eagle by the tail feathers.

  The eagle screamed in outrage. With one mighty beat of his wings, he pulled free of the coyote and climbed into the sky.

  Father coyote sniffed his son from tip to tail. Satisfied that he was unhurt, he gently nipped the small pup. “What in the name of Mother Moon are you doing out here?”

  The pup was too young, life too new, to explain what drew him from the safety of his mother’s side. He looked up and up into his father’s yellow eyes and simply said, “I wanted to see.”

  The father snorted. He picked up his son by the scruff of his neck and carried him down into the den.

  Mother coyote woke at the sound of paws on the dirt. She leaped to her feet. With one bound, she grabbed the pup from her mate and carried him back to his mewling brother and sisters.

  Father plopped down with a sigh.

  Mother sniffed her little wanderer. “I knew when this one was born with his eyes open,” she said, tucking him firmly under her paws, “he was going to be all kinds of trouble.”

  2

  Swift, Pounce, and Star

  The moon rose twelve nights and the days grew warmer. Finally, the coyote pups climbed from the dark safety of the den, out into the world. They looked about with wonder.

  Ferns unfurled toward the sunlight. Frogs sang their welcome to the warmth.

  Twist, a yearling from last year’s litter, quivered with excitement. He sniffed each pup. “Oh,” he sighed. “They are practically perfect in every way!”

  “Yes,” Father agreed, lying in the sun beside Mother. “Two boys and two girls. Can’t do any better than that.”

  “What shall we name them?” Twist asked.

  “Give them time.” Mother watched her pups from the top of a sun-warmed rock. “They’ll tell us their names.

  “In the meantime,” she said, “that one is going to keep us busy.” She pointed her nose at the pup who’d been born with his eyes open. The pup, who’d followed his curiosity dangerously close to the edge of the creek, now teetered on a slippery stone.

  Twist rushed over, grabbed the pup by the scruff of his neck, and brought him back to his mother.

  “Maybe he’s telling us his name is Curious,” Twist said. “Or Wanderer.”

  As the days passed, the pups revealed their names.

  The largest of the pups soon proved the best hunter of grasshoppers and frogs and mice. He was named Pounce.

  His long-legged sister could outrun them all when they raced across the wide, green meadow. She was named Swift.

  The sister the color of moonlight had the most beautiful voice when the pack sang to the moon at night. Her voice soared all the way up to the stars, so she was named Star.

  But as three pups delighted their parents and older brother with their pounce and speed and soaring song, the fourth pup worried them. He displayed an abundance of curiosity and an alarming lack of caution. He was given to wandering and exploring and poking his nose into places where it didn’t belong.

  Like hornets’ nests.

  Yowwwwwwwwww!

  The young pup tore across the meadow, an angry cloud of buzzing hornets in pursuit.

  Twist tenderly licked the pup’s swollen snout. The pup winced as the rough tongue stroked his burning nose.

  “I just wanted to see what they were doing in there,” the pup whimpered.

  Mother shook her head, not for the first time.

  “What next?” Father wondered aloud.

  He didn’t have long to wait for the answer.

  3

  Trouble


  Two days later, on a particularly warm day, the Singing Creek Pack napped together in the deep shade of an evergreen tree.

  All except one.

  The curious pup’s ears swiveled one way and then the other. The air pulsed with sounds of spring in the forest: the faint rustle of mice tunneling beneath the grass, the lazy hum of bees, the call of one bird to another, and always, the never-ending song of Singing Creek.

  The warm breeze brought a deliciously unfamiliar smell to the young coyote. He wriggled his wet nose trying to sort out this new scent. It smelled green like the grass in the meadow but also like deep, rich earth.

  There were far too many interesting things happening in the world to take a nap.

  He squirmed from beneath Twist’s paw and scooted under the tree branches, out into the bright sun.

  I’ll just see what there is to see over by that big rock.

  He heard a chirp and an angry chit chit chit from a small burrow beneath the rock. The curious coyote cocked his head to one side, then pawed at the burrow entrance. “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Go away!” a voice snapped.

  “Why?” The pup pawed at the opening with both feet.

  A squirrel shot out of the hole, between the coyote’s front paws, and across the clearing.

  “Wait!” the pup yipped. He galloped after the squirrel on his fat little legs. “Wait for me!”

  By the time he crossed the clearing, the squirrel was gone. The pup sat on his rump and looked around. Here there was no Singing Creek, no den beneath the roots of an old oak tree.

  Here trees were twisted by the wind, their knobby roots clawing sand and stone. Here, rather than lush ferns carpeting the forest floor, the pup’s feet rested on rough stones.

  The little coyote quivered with excitement. It was all so strange and new! This was a place beyond where he’d ever been.

  His heart raced. He looked back over his shoulder. Surely his family was just a howl away.

  Chit! Chit! Chit! Chit!

  “There you are,” the coyote yipped.

  The squirrel angrily flicked its tail and dashed across the stones, then dropped out of sight, the pup in hot pursuit . . .

  until he too dropped out of sight . . .

  over a rock outcropping . . .

  landing with a plop on a narrow ledge below.

  The pup was in a bit of a pickle. He could not go up and could not go down, nor sideways even.

  He whimpered. Where was his mother? Where were his father and his big brother?

  The coyote pointed his muzzle to the sky and howled long and high—a howl that ended with three urgent yip yip yips. A howl that said “Help! Help! Help!”

  The coyote cocked his ears and listened for an answer. Nothing.

  He tried again. Awwoooooooooooooooo, yip! Yip! Yip!

  Still, no answer.

  “Hey,” a voice called from above. “What’s all the racket?”

  A silver face with a black mask of fur peered over the ledge.

  The pup blinked. “Who are you?”

  A raccoon never answers a question. Instead, he said, “Don’t you know some of us are trying to sleep?”

  “I’m stuck,” the pup whimpered. “And I don’t know where I am,” he added with a wet sniff.

  “And what am I supposed to do about it?” the raccoon muttered. He eyed the coyote pup. “It’s not like your clan and mine are friends.”

  “You won’t help me?” the pup asked in a tiny voice.

  The raccoon yawned, turned his back to the coyote, and disappeared from sight.

  Yip, yip, yip, yap, yap, arowwwwwwwwoooo!

  Under the napping tree, Mother sprang to her feet.

  Father sat up and shook the sleep from his head. “What was that?”

  “A pup in trouble,” Mother said.

  The three coyotes looked at the three sleeping pups—Pounce, Swift, and Star—and then at one another.

  “Uh-oh,” Twist said.

  “My baby!” Mother cried.

  “Here we go again.” Father sighed.

  Yip, yip, yip, yap, yap, arowwwwwwwwoooo!

  The raccoon groaned. It was no use.

  He leaned over the edge of the outcropping. “Quiet!”

  The pup stopped his howls.

  The raccoon rubbed his ears. “You have a voice that could wake a bat.”

  He sighed. “I guess the only way I’m going to get any sleep is to get you up here.”

  “Oh, would you?” the pup squeaked hopefully. He shifted nervously on the ledge, his tail tucked between his trembling legs.

  The raccoon glared at the pup. “I’ll pull you out, but then you’re on your own.”

  He waddled over to a scrubby bush, broke off a branch, and carried it back to the ledge. He eyed the distance between himself and the coyote. It would do.

  The raccoon stretched out on his belly. “I’m going to lower this branch down to you. Grab on with those teeth of yours, and I’ll pull you up.”

  The pup did.

  The raccoon dug his back legs into the dirt and pulled with all his might.

  To the pup’s relief, his feet slowly lifted off the ledge.

  “Don’t let go,” said the raccoon.

  With a squeak, the pup popped up over the ledge to safety. Both the raccoon and the coyote pup sat on the ground, panting. The raccoon looked over at the ball of fur. “You’re an awful lot of trouble for just a pup,” he said.

  Just then, Mother coyote bounded into the clearing, Father and Twist following close on her heels. She skidded to a halt and looked in horror at her little coyote baby leaning against a large, disreputable-looking raccoon.

  “Get away from my child!” she growled.

  The raccoon stood and shook himself wearily. “Gladly,” he said.

  The pup scampered over to his parents, yipping and licking their faces with joy.

  “If you’ve done anything to harm my precious boy, I’ll—” Mother said as her nose searched every inch of the pup’s body.

  “Lady,” the raccoon said as he ambled off, “I wish you luck. That one there, he’s trouble.”

  And from that day forth, the pup was called Trouble.

  4

  The Makers

  Mother and Father watched from the shade as their four pups chased Twist around and around the meadow. The gentle hum of bees filled the air. The sweet smell of clover drifted on the breeze.

  “It seems Trouble has learned his lesson,” Father said. “He’s been sticking close to home the last ten moonrises.”

  And indeed, it was true. Trouble had watched attentively as Mother demonstrated the finer points of stalking voles, mice, and grasshoppers. He had even become almost as fine a pouncer as his brother and gave his sister Swift a good run for her money.

  Mother watched Trouble and Twist play tug-of-war with a strip of deer hide. She hoped Trouble had learned his lesson, but she doubted it.

  She stood and shook off her uncertainty. “Time to teach them about the Makers,” she announced.

  “Pups,” she barked. “Come!”

  The pups lined up behind their parents, with their older brother bringing up the rear. “Now, my pupletts,” Father said, “before we start out, what is the most important rule of the Coyote Clan?”

  “I know! I know!” Swift yipped. “Never leave a pack member behind.”

  “That’s right,” their mother said. “We’re family. We stick together, no matter what. We’re going farther than you’ve been before, so stay close.”

  Trouble’s heart quickened. Farther! They were going farther than they had been before. What a delicious idea!

  Trouble trotted across the meadow a few tail-lengths behind his brother; his head swiveled this way and that to see all there was to see. They crossed another creek and then another—creeks that did not sing in the same musical way his creek did. For just a moment Trouble hesitated, then hurried to catch up with his family.

  They skirted the remains of a
tumbledown shack rich with the scent of rodents. The lingering sweet aroma of hope and the bitter smell of loss clung to the rotting wood walls.

  Trouble stopped to sniff a rusted bucket. The rust smelled sharp, like cold spring water, but there, just there, he caught a salty whiff that both worried and fascinated the pup.

  Twist nudged him from behind. “Keep moving, puplett,” he barked.

  “But—”

  The larger coyote nudged him, harder this time. “Now, Trouble.”

  Single file, they wove their way through an old apple orchard laced with the scent of deer and raccoons.

  On the edge of the orchard, Mother stopped. “Listen,” she said.

  The pups threw their large ears forward. In the distance they heard a low, deep growl.

  “What is it?” Pounce asked his father in alarm.

  Swift readied herself to flee at a moment’s notice, and Star shivered and shook next to Twist.

  “It sounds huge,” Trouble exclaimed. “It sounds exciting! Can we go see?”

  Mother and Father exchanged a look—one that said that their son had not, in fact, learned his lesson.

  Mother nodded. “Yes, we will go see, but you must promise me something,” she said, looking sternly into Trouble’s eyes.

  “You must promise me you will stay behind me and your father.”

  His muscles quivered with excitement. He wanted so very much to run faster than he’d ever run toward whatever made that sound, to see what there was to see, and—

  “Trouble!” his mother growled. “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Trouble promised.

  The pack worked its way along the edge of the apple orchard, keeping always to the shadows.

  Mother stopped. “Do exactly as I do and don’t make a sound,” she whispered.

  She dropped low and slunk through the long grass and weeds. The closer they came to the field, the louder the strange noise grew. Swift growled nervously.

  “I want to go home,” Pounce whimpered.

  Trouble bounced as high as he could—up, down, up, down—to see above the grass.

  His father’s paw pinned him to the ground. “Stop, or we’ll be seen,” he hissed.

  When they got so close the earth itself began to shake, it was too much for young Pounce. With a squeal, he wheeled and ran for the safety of the trees.