Silas: Why We Must Stop Hating Coyotes and Start Understanding Them

I will never understand how people can hate them so much. When I look at Silas—a small orphaned coyote found today, starving and covered in ticks—I don’t see a menace, a pest, or a monster. I see a fragile life on the edge, a creature trembling with exhaustion, clinging to its last thread of strength. His ribs press sharply against his thin skin. His once-lustrous fur is dulled and patchy, crawling with parasites that have stolen his vitality. And yet, even in this broken state, his eyes hold a light—a spark of intelligence and a desperate plea for compassion.

When I approach, Silas doesn’t snarl. He doesn’t attack. He watches me carefully, reading my movements like a scholar decoding an ancient script. His body tenses, his muscles coil, but not out of hatred—out of fear. Fear of a world that has taught him to run, to hide, to expect cruelty. Slowly, I kneel. My breath steadies, my hands remain open, my posture soft. And then something incredible happens: his eyes lock with mine. In that silent exchange, an agreement forms. I will not hurt you. You will not hurt me.

People forget that coyotes are not so different from the dogs who share our homes, the ones who sleep curled against us on the couch. They share 99.8% of their DNA with domestic dogs. Their intelligence, emotional depth, and social behaviors mirror those of our pets. Coyotes, like dogs, are bright, sensitive, and curious. They are not demons lurking at the edges of our neighborhoods—they are survivors, navigating a world we have made increasingly hostile.

Coyotes are devoted partners and loving parents. They mate for life, forming monogamous bonds that put some human relationships to shame. They raise their young together, teaching them to hunt, to play, to survive. They comfort one another with gentle nuzzles. They mourn their dead. In so many ways, they are like us—and yet, we condemn them for the simple act of existing freely, for daring to live outside our fences and leashes.

Critics call them pests because they hunt for their food. But what else should they do? They can’t stroll into a supermarket. They can’t open a can of dog food. To live, they must hunt. And yet, for this natural instinct, they are vilified, trapped, poisoned, and shot. They are blamed when a farmer loses chickens or when a pet is left unattended in the dark. But the truth is, coyotes don’t kill out of malice—they kill because they are carnivores in an ecosystem that needs them.

Coyotes are not the villains of our story—they are the balance keepers. After humans exterminated every last red wolf from Tennessee—animals so similar to coyotes that most people couldn’t tell them apart—our ecosystems collapsed. With wolves gone, smaller predators like raccoons, foxes, and feral cats multiplied unchecked, raiding nests and destroying songbird and turtle populations. Meanwhile, deer populations exploded, leading to overgrazed forests, disease outbreaks, and a surge in car collisions that claimed human lives.

Nature has a way of fixing what we break. Coyotes crossed the Mississippi, stepping into the void left by wolves. They didn’t come to harm us; they came to restore balance. And they’ve done it remarkably well. By controlling overpopulated prey species, coyotes protect countless plants and animals. They save forests from being stripped bare. They prevent small predators from wiping out vulnerable bird species. Every time Silas stalks a mouse or a rabbit, he is performing an ecological service that benefits us all.

So why do we hate them? Why do we pour billions into eradicating them when their very existence helps repair the wounds we inflicted on this land? Fear, ignorance, and a stubborn refusal to see beyond the myths.

Coyotes have been cast as villains in countless tales—a threat lurking in the shadows, a danger to pets, a menace to livestock. But statistics tell a different story: attacks on humans are almost nonexistent. Livestock losses are minimal compared to those caused by disease, weather, and even domestic dogs. And pets? They are at risk only when left unsupervised at night—something no responsible owner should do in wildlife country. The truth is, coexistence is not only possible—it’s essential.

When I look at Silas, I don’t see a predator to fear. I see a puppy who misses his mother. I see a soul who has endured hunger, thirst, and solitude and still chooses to trust enough to meet my gaze. He responds to my breathing. He flinches when I move too quickly. He calms when I speak softly. How can anyone look at that and feel hatred?

Our fight isn’t just to save Silas—it’s to change the way we see animals like him. To teach the world that coyotes aren’t enemies but allies in a fragile web of life. To replace bullets with understanding, traps with tolerance. To remind people that wildness is not a crime; it is a gift—a heartbeat of the Earth that we should honor, not destroy.

Silas is safe now. He rests on a green and white towel in a quiet enclosure, his head heavy with exhaustion, his body slowly surrendering to sleep. For the first time in who knows how long, he doesn’t have to run. He doesn’t have to hide. He can simply exist without fear. And in that stillness, I feel a profound gratitude—not from him, but from the wild itself. Gratitude for the small acts of mercy that ripple outward in ways we may never fully understand.

But mercy takes resources. It takes food, medicine, shelter, and skilled hands. That’s why we need your help. Our greatest needs right now are cash donations through PayPal, freeze-dried raw kibble from our Amazon wishlist, and frozen food donations through RodentPro. Every dollar, every bag of food, every act of generosity keeps us going—keeps Silas alive and gives us the power to say yes to the next orphan, the next creature cast aside by a world that too often chooses fear over empathy.

We don’t save coyotes because it’s easy. We save them because they matter. Because they belong. Because when the wild thrives, so do we. And because one day, when our children ask what we did to protect the Earth’s most misunderstood creatures, we want to answer with pride: We gave them a chance.

Thank you for making that possible. Thank you for standing with us—and with Silas—in the fight for a world where every life has value, no matter how wild.