This morning I found a track in a muddy patch on the east side of my cabin. I was quite excited, since bobcats have been seen in the area recently. Much like a bird watcher, I keep a running tally of the animals I observe around my place. It might be considered cheating, but I also include the near misses. When I find a track but don’t see the animal that created it, I classify it as “Left a calling card. Missed him because I wasn’t watching.” This was one of those instances. I ran inside to get my animal tracks identification book before the early light shifted or the track was destroyed by another drizzle of rain.

Small and rustic, my cabin is tucked inside a canyon cut by a perpetually-flowing river in the mountains of Arizona. At 5,000 feet elevation, the environment is a transition between two very different landscapes. To the south is the northernmost edge of the Sonoran Desert which covers the bottom half of Arizona and stretches down into Mexico. Travel north another ten miles, climbing an additional two thousand feet, and you’ll enter the largest ponderosa pine forest in the world. In this transition area I have a little bit of everything. My land has clumps of ungainly juniper and self-confident oak trees. Clusters of manzanita bushes covered in red berries. Giant sycamores line the banks of the river, firmly rooted into the damp soil. An occasional pine tree is around, almost embarrassed to not be hanging out with the main tribe up north. A prickly pear cactus will surprise with its presence, sometimes unpleasantly.

I squatted down to get a close look, measured the track with my ruler, counted four toes and noted the shape of the heel pad. It looked similar to the life-size bobcat print in my identification book. Everything was there and in the right proportions, but there was also a visible claw mark at the end of each toe. Because they have retractable claws, the track wasn’t made by a bobcat. It was made by either a wild coyote or a domesticated dog.

While porch sitting, there have been times when I watch a lone coyote stride along the riverbank and enter this small collection of mountain cabins. Perhaps his goal is to raid a rubbish bin or leap over a wall and steal food from a dog’s dinner bowl. Perhaps it’s a daytime reconnaissance mission. Survey and take pity on his canine cousins who are not allowed to spend a hot day inside a cool house, but are instead sequestered behind a fence.

My neighbors across the dirt road own a large black Labrador retriever named Dutch. He was adopted into the family not only as a pet but also to patrol the property contained within their three-foot high chain-link fence. He barks at anything that moves and repels all manner of undesirables: skunks, elk, deer, javelina, raccoons, burglars. Dutch wears a collar with a state-mandated license tag hanging on it. He most probably also has an electronic chip implanted under the skin in his neck. In case he wanders too far and gets caught, his owner can be easily contacted to come bail him out of the county dog pound. When he’s sick or needs his required rabies shot, he’s taken to the veterinarian’s office. His medical file identifies him as Dutch, and he has been given the German surname of his owners. But Dutch isn’t German. He isn’t from Labrador. Dutch isn’t even Dutch. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t consider himself to be an American.

Coyotes are found from Alaska to Central America. If they had a need to distinguish themselves by nationality, some could call themselves Canadian; others would be Mexican or American. Their population and ranges are not restricted by political boundaries. They need nobody’s approval to cross borders of any type.

The boundaries of my property are inconspicuous. When an elderly Native American woman sold her land to a developer in the 1950s, the area was platted into residential building lots. Four thick galvanized pipes were driven deep into solid granite bedrock to mark each of my lot’s four corners. About six inches of each pipe protrudes above ground level. The only time you notice one of them is when you stumble over it. There is a weathered and crumbling remnant of the original split rail fence marking the eastern boundary at the dirt road. The crossbeams are so often knocked down by elk who cross the property on their way to the river that I keep the attached gate propped open. It’s an invitation to all. Come on by. Stay awhile and have a drink.

Was this new track made by a wild coyote or a domesticated dog? I wasn’t able to tell since only one impression in the small patch of mud was pristine. Coyotes are said to walk with purpose in a straight line whereas dogs tend to wander about enthusiastically.

With a need to stay close to the river during the hot summer months, I sometimes hear a pack of coyotes at night through my open bedroom window. They gather in the deep gully that traverses the southern boundary of my property. They yip and yelp and yap as the pack is reunified, perhaps in celebration of success in hunting rabbits. The group chorus usually ends in one long howl which echoes off the walls of the canyon. At his post behind the fence, Dutch is always keeping watch over his owner’s property. From my cabin, I’m unable to tell whether or not he joins in. Maybe he just sits and listens to canine words he’s quite familiar with. Words that are spoken in a foreign accent.

One time I was sitting on my porch watching the river roll by and a black streak rushed past. It flung itself into the water and splashed about. It was Dutch. His wild side had grabbed control of his mind, causing him to snub his domestic responsibilities. After he was cooled off and covered with enough mud to produce blissful contentment, he started trudging back up the hill. I called to him and he agreed to join me on my porch, along with his reclaimed mature and sophisticated manners. He lay at my feet and pretended to listen while I made predictions sprinkled with a bit of hope. The afternoon shadows will lengthen into summer. Gullywashers will erase animal tracks and new ones will appear. My cabin and its wooden fence will disintegrate into powder and the pipes that mark the boundaries will, over time, be obscured by crumbling granite. Foreign accents will no longer be considered alien and undesirable. And the land will open up once more. When Dutch had dried off and all my hopes had been expressed, I walked him back across the road and lifted the latch of the gate to my neighbor’s chain-link fence. “Nice seeing you again, Dutch. Come and visit whenever you want. Any time.”