The coyotes are raising a ruckus down in the woods, yipping and howling, and carrying on. Probably a successful hunt has excited them.
Buck stands alert, poised at the sliding glass doors.
He just had his one cup of diet dog food topped by his (*very* generous) tablespoon of canned food.
I watch his ears twitch as he leans forward to listen.
He's never read Jack London, I know,
but Buck wants to be coyote.
Nobody puts a coyote on a diet.