Along in the deep night somebody said, "Move over, pup," and was warm beside her.
Ifc
Breakfast, eaten sitting in the sun in the doorway, was dried-salmon-powder mush. Coyote hunted, mornings and evenings, but what they ate was not fresh game but salmon, and dried stuff, and any berries in season. The child did not ask about this. It made sense to her. She was going to ask Coyote why she slept at night and waked in the day like humans, instead of the other way round like coyotes, but when she framed the question in her mind she saw at once that night is when you sleep and day when you're awake; that made sense too. But one question she did ask, one hot day when they were lying around slapping fleas.
"I don't understand why you all look like people," she said.
"We are people."
"I mean, people like me, humans."
"Resemblance is in the eye," Coyote said. "How is that lousy eye, by the way?"
"It's fine. But—like you wear clothes—and live in houses —with fires and stuff—"
"That's what you think... If that loudmouth Jay hadn't horned in, I could have done a really good job."
The child was quite used to Coyote's disinclination to stick to any one subject, and to her boasting. Coyote was like a lot of kids she knew, in some respects. Not in others.
"You mean what I'm seeing isn't true? Isn't real—like on TV, or something?"
"No," Coyote said. "Hey, that's a tick on your collar." She reached over, flicked the tick off, picked it up on one finger, bit it, and spat out the bits.
"Yecch!" the child said. "So?"
"So, to me you're basically greyish yellow and run on four legs. To that lot—" she waved disdainfully at the warren of little houses next down the hill—"you hop around twitching your nose all the time. To Hawk, you're an egg, or maybe getting pinfeathers. See? It just depends on how you look at things. There are only two kinds of people."