There we were in the middle of nowhere waiting and watching the snow fall of the harvested fields. The Moon and the Stars were visible overhead and we sat quietly in the front seat taking in the awe of the world around us. I wanted to hear some of that upbeat, swinging jazz that had been so much a part of my Sunday evening for the last decade. Out this far the airwaves were quiet, and there was nothing to pick up. In the distance, a wolf howled and was answered by his brother at least I think it was his brother. I’ve never been able to tell with wolves.
“It’s a coyote,” Mark said as if ready my thoughts.
“Wolf,” I answered.
“Wrong.”
“No Mark, it’s a wolf. Listen to his vowels. It’s wolf – Nebraskan dialect.”
“Why would a Nebraskan wolf be in the middle of Ohio?”
“NAFTA.”
“Wouldn’t that have taken him more toward Mexico?”
“No. It brought him here to Ohio. Don’t you pay attention to anything?”
“To what? You’ve got an insane idea that the obviously Texan coyote is a wolf from Nebraska. It’s insane.”
“Let’s make a deal. If we’re taken up by a UFO, let me do the talking,” I told him. “Otherwise they’ll think they’ve picked up a couple of complete wankers.”
