The first winter snowfall comes at night and I take our two dogs from the condo on the western edge of Toronto down to Etobicoke Creek. The wide ravine is lit as if by a bright moon and silenced by the fresh, white blanket. No one is around. We cross the Middle Road Bridge, the first reinforced concrete span in North America, built in 1909, so says the plaque. It has an elegant arch truss and now serves as a pedestrian passage over the water.
The dogs begin to bark and I’m thankful they’re leashed, a rarity in such a setting for me and one that I’m sure saved their lives. The coyotes begin to approach, with the alpha leading the pack. I begin to back up, not taking my eyes off its gnarly gaze, noticeable teeth and wolf-like mane. These wild dogs are twice the size of my labradoodle and many times more than my partner’s bichon poodle.
The final climb to the now incongruous setting of a peaceful suburb is the steepest. My foot slips. The alpha seizes the moment and lunges forward with the others close behind. The leashes tighten as I fall backward, which helps me regain my footing, the dogs acting as anchors to set me right. The pack pauses again.
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