Upper 90s, brisk wind. The hills are already parched … and she's back!

I confess, I’d almost given up, ceded to the idea that “The Gal” was no more. Injury, nefarious circumstances, age, hunters—or maybe she had just moved.

On the eleventh tee, I watched Fred and Ed tee off, then did the same. They went down to the women’s tee, awaiting another good drive from Wayne. I stood on the tee and decided that, although there had been no response for over a month, I’d issue one last Hail Mary whistle and an extended arm. The wind was strong and the whistle would carry. Nothing.

I drove down to my errant tee shot and measured the distance to the hole. As I was measuring, I heard the familiar tread of my favorite coyote! She circled me as I asked where she’d been, nearly expecting an answer. She looked the worse for wear. Her new brood must be one rowdy group.

Suddenly the front nine melted away (54!). The Gal quickly gobbled up the Fig Newtons I had kept in my lunch box, just in case. She followed us to the next hole, where she talked me out of my ham sandwich.

She’s back … how cool is that?!