A man who walks with the animals, talks with the animals, grunts and squeaks and squawks with the animals! and they could talk to me!

— “Doctor Dolittle” theme song

We share our surroundings with Pacific Northwest wildlife of every variety. I amuse myself by talking with them.

This goes for the Canada geese that loudly complain at our intrusion during dog walks around Culbertson Park. “Oh you silly goose,” I say, as they waddle a bit farther away. Funny how attuned they are to hunting season; when it’s on, they scatter if we come within a hundred yards.

It’s simple good manners to say hello to intelligent ravens, as I did last week to a bonded pair who drifted along in a thick, gray mist here on the isthmus between river and ocean.

Our neighborhood, like many in this area, is crawling with semi-tame, not very smart deer. They sometimes graze within a dozen feet of the house, munching on annuals. They turn their big radar-dish ears toward me and puzzle over what it means when greeted, “Hi, deer, what’s for breakfast?”

Wildlife experts have taken note of this interesting learned behavior by deer and some other common prey animals — hanging out close to humans, finding a sort of safety since other predators avoid us.

Our reputation hasn’t been enough to dissuade Pacific County cougars lately, including one who attacked livestock near the heart of South Bend on Feb. 24 in the 100 block of East First Street. Possibly the same one was spotted by a citizen on Feb. 4 near the corner of Willapa Avenue and West Second Street. Others have been observed on the Long Beach Peninsula, where they’ve feasted on goats near Sandridge Road, while usually preferring deer and smaller mammals such as raccoons and indoor/outdoor domestic cats.

I’ve never spoken with a cougar, but have talked to plenty of black bears when we’ve had close encounters in my yard and out in the woods.

Coyote chats and scats

My most entertaining chats have always been with coyotes.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked one. “Yes, you! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He oozed over behind a small mound of dirt and resumed his obnoxious, loud-mouthed backtalk.

“I can still see you,” I said, and he froze again, a perfect picture of antagonism and curiosity.

Coyotes aren’t used to being spoken to. Manners aren’t their strong suit. But maybe they think the same of us.

Even taking their sharp wits into account, it was surprising to find one standing up on its hind feet haranguing me as I walked an earlier pair of dogs down our favorite forest path between home and the ocean. It really was walking on its hind feet, at least for a few moments at a time, and barking — all big ears and bluster. Out in the open, it stayed a good 50 feet away, but in the deep woods I could tell it was edging closer.

Back in the Rocky Mountains, where I grew up, we smiled with pained forbearance when sheepmen launched into arm-waving tantrums about legions of varmints killing innocent livestock. By a peculiar coincidence, ranchers received government compensation if predators were involved, but nothing if their lambs just up and died. This led to a mocking bumper sticker, “Eat lamb: 10,000 coyotes can’t be wrong!” which eventually proved so popular that the industry adopted it as an advertising slogan.

Complaints about aggressive coyotes led to an information session by the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife. The gist was “Yep, we sure have a mess of them,” and “Nope, there’s not much anybody can do about it.” In an interesting side note, the officers said some local cat and small dog disappearances could be pinned on eagles, not coyotes.

My mother suggested carrying a shotgun. Back in olden days, I would have. Besides intimidating overly frisky coyotes, every so often a grouse takes flight in the underbrush, always making me jump. But I imagine any tourists encountering a shotgun-toting local on Discovery Trail would speed-dial 911 — and I don’t want to end up in my own police dispatch report.

Finally, it bears remembering that coyotes have been here longer than most of us. Chinook Indian legends tell of learning all the do’s and don’ts of salmon fishing from Coyote — who acquired the rules himself by questioning his own articulate excrement.

Matt Winters is the regional editor of The Daily Astorian, the Seaside Signal and the Chinook Observer.