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Description
It's a glorious fall morning down at the off-leash area. Casey, my soft, fuzzy, and adorable bichon-shi tzu mix is tearing along the path in pure canine joy. The cold, crisp air is invigorating, and the sunrise has left a beautiful riot of colors in the sky.

Neither of us saw the coyote coming.

A faint rustle, a brown blur, and suddenly it's on Casey. He shrieks and tries to defend himself, but he's always been a lover, not a fighter.

It all happens so fast my conscious mind has frozen up trying to process it all. My unconscious mind however picks up the slack and already has me sprinting at the monster attempting to eat my best friend.

Somehow the coyote doesn't notice my charge, but that changed after two-forty pounds of angry human slammed into it. A flailing paw scratches my face and knocks my glasses askew. A shake of my head flings them away. I won't be needing them for this.

I have size and opposable digits. The coyote has desperation, better natural weapons, and most likely experience. Fairly even fight, then.

We roll, the coyote ending up on its back with me on top. In a crude aping of MMA fights I've seen on TV I press one forearm against its windpipe and use the other to rain fists down on its head. My conscious mind finally catches up, and is rather horrified to find me fighting a wild animal. My instincts don't care: this thing hurt Casey and needs to be punished.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… now the hammering fists elicit a whine every time they land. My rational mind latches onto the sound and seizes control violently. I'm not violent. Casey's safe, no need to hurt this poor-

FUCK!

It took just a moment of hesitation to let the coyote wrap its jaws around my forearm. My jacket holds off some of it, but this is no cutesy play bite. This is a wild animal that's fighting for its life.

It tightens its bite and pain supernovas from my arm, and suddenly I see red. My rational mind, heartbeats ago the voice of reason, has only one thought:

Exterminate. The. Brute.

My free hand paws desperately, trying not to take my weight off the beast while trying to find something… ahh, there it is. Good old rock. Nothing beats rock.

Now armed, my free hand arced high to bash the coyote's skull in. The mongrel doesn't have the decency to let go with the first hit – it was a weak shot, I admit – so I continue.

I think it lets go of my arm after the third or fourth hit. I'm not really paying attention to that at that point. I just want it to stop moving.

Finally the last whimpers fade and I roll off the coyote's body, right hand still clutching the rock in a death grip.

Faintly I hear the sounds of other dog owners running to investigate, but they barely register. All I feel is Casey, wounded but alive, gently licking my cheek, wiping away tears and blood as he desperately tries to bring back the person he loves from the thing that just murdered the coyote.

Poor little guy, he doesn't realize they're one and the same.

Description
It's a glorious fall morning down at the off-leash area. Casey, my soft, fuzzy, and adorable bichon-shi tzu mix is tearing along the path in pure canine joy. The cold, crisp air is invigorating, and the sunrise has left a beautiful riot of colors in the sky.

Neither of us saw the coyote coming.

A faint rustle, a brown blur, and suddenly it's on Casey. He shrieks and tries to defend himself, but he's always been a lover, not a fighter.

It all happens so fast my conscious mind has frozen up trying to process it all. My unconscious mind however picks up the slack and already has me sprinting at the monster attempting to eat my best friend.

Somehow the coyote doesn't notice my charge, but that changed after two-forty pounds of angry human slammed into it. A flailing paw scratches my face and knocks my glasses askew. A shake of my head flings them away. I won't be needing them for this.

I have size and opposable digits. The coyote has desperation, better natural weapons, and most likely experience. Fairly even fight, then.

We roll, the coyote ending up on its back with me on top. In a crude aping of MMA fights I've seen on TV I press one forearm against its windpipe and use the other to rain fists down on its head. My conscious mind finally catches up, and is rather horrified to find me fighting a wild animal. My instincts don't care: this thing hurt Casey and needs to be punished.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… now the hammering fists elicit a whine every time they land. My rational mind latches onto the sound and seizes control violently. I'm not violent. Casey's safe, no need to hurt this poor-

FUCK!

It took just a moment of hesitation to let the coyote wrap its jaws around my forearm. My jacket holds off some of it, but this is no cutesy play bite. This is a wild animal that's fighting for its life.

It tightens its bite and pain supernovas from my arm, and suddenly I see red. My rational mind, heartbeats ago the voice of reason, has only one thought:

Exterminate. The. Brute.

My free hand paws desperately, trying not to take my weight off the beast while trying to find something… ahh, there it is. Good old rock. Nothing beats rock.

Now armed, my free hand arced high to bash the coyote's skull in. The mongrel doesn't have the decency to let go with the first hit – it was a weak shot, I admit – so I continue.

I think it lets go of my arm after the third or fourth hit. I'm not really paying attention to that at that point. I just want it to stop moving.

Finally the last whimpers fade and I roll off the coyote's body, right hand still clutching the rock in a death grip.

Faintly I hear the sounds of other dog owners running to investigate, but they barely register. All I feel is Casey, wounded but alive, gently licking my cheek, wiping away tears and blood as he desperately tries to bring back the person he loves from the thing that just murdered the coyote.

Poor little guy, he doesn't realize they're one and the same.