Coyotes are almost invisible in most places they live; people know they’re around but might never see them. As a biologist with the Narragansett Bay Coyote Study, I get within 100 feet of several coyotes every time I radiotrack our study animals.  Nevertheless, I feel lucky to observe one darting from a meadow into brush or slipping across a road.  It may sound strange to people working on Naval Station Newport, but normally coyotes are shy.  This is not the case on on our Base. 

 For a year now, the Base has been home to what is arguably the un-wiliest pack of coyotes in all Rhode Island .  Last spring seven coyote puppies were regularly seen rough-housing, hunting grasshoppers, or snoozing in various parts of the Base.  The easygoing nature of these pups allowed a special glimpse into the life of coyotes for everyone on the Navy Base who cared to look.  For a coyote biologist, The Seabee puppies were a bonanza.

 In April, the Narragansett Bay Coyote Study began work on the Base.  The pups, their parents, and pack members, naturally became known to researchers “The Seabees.”  As this point, we had only an inkling that people might be key to the mystery of coyote abundance and no notion that The Seabees would get themselves in so much trouble. 

 We tried to capture a parent without capturing a puppy for most of the spring.  Until they are about four months old, coyotes are too small to carry a transmitter. To avoid catching them, we set our traps at distances from the young coyotes, yet in places all over the Base where we hoped the older coyotes would encounter them.  To my chagrin, the parents successfully eluded capture from late May through July.  The continual trap-checking meant I was visiting the Base at dawn each day which, in the end, was a plus.

The parents had parked their puppies in a strategic location when I first began observing them:  Magazine 1177, less than 1500 feet from each of three colonies of outdoor (feral) cats.  After a perfunctory check of empty traps I would sneak up on the puppies and watch them for as much as an hour.  This might sound impressive but took no talent whatsoever.  It usually involved driving up to them, trying not to slam the doors, and sitting in the parking lot where seven pups were conked out.  They would rarely stir on my arrival.  Though the pups were oblivious, I was always conscious of being stared at.  Indeed, I would usually see the mother, a lanky buff-colored coyote, emerge from the scrub and evaluate the predicament as I dropped down beside her pups.

On dry mornings in April they were usually asleep in the meadow in the mower clippings at 1177 or punching holes in plastic milk jugs with their needlelike teeth.  Rain didn’t change things; they slept soundly in the grass while it poured.  On the best day for me they were romping in the grass as their mother streaked in with something small in her mouth. An adult black coyote (I suspected it to be the father, the α-male) appeared briefly by her side before melting into the brush line.  The mother trotted across the meadow towards the pups and they bolted towards her, muzzles gathering at her face.  She passed the food to the first (and largest) two.  Then, with a conspicuous stare at me she walked into the shelter of the brush trailed by her young.  She reemerged without them and left towards the walking trail at the edge of Wanumetonomy Golf course.  Seemed like a clear enough message from an average mother:  “Stay here and don’t move till I come back.”  Silence for two minutes and nothing moved.  A fire siren wailed.  One low long growl leaked from a hidden puppy then all seven burst from the brush-line howling, heads thrown in the air.  One jumped on another, another jumped on a third and from there order degraded completely.  Playful mayhem continued for 15 minutes until, on some unknown cue, they all stood and each walked into the brush.  That was it for the morning, a typical exit, after which I too would leave.

 As the spring progressed coyote action was ramping up.  One significantly pregnant woman at NUWC had been followed to her office by, what seemed like, a gang of three pups hustling behind her in the pre-dawn hours.  Then, in late summer, the coyotes disappeared.  Forlornly, I monitored my traps on Base.  Signs of coyotes (tracks or droppings) were scarce and I knew they had moved. 

As sightings on the Base dropped, my office phone began ringing with coyote complaints from the neighborhoods surrounding Miantonomi Park.

“There must be thirty large wolves or something in front of my house!” “They howl every night during ‘Taps’!”  “I saw them eat my neighbor’s cat!”  “They ate my cat!”  “Are they going to eat my kids?”  I gave up on the Base and moved my traps to downtown Newport . On November 14, we caught and collared a Seabee in a neighborhood near Miantonomi Park .  A large female – one of the pups – now 36 pounds.  The pack is notorious because about half of the people living in Park Holm, the neighborhood opposite the Miantonomi woods, appear to be feeding them.  The other half are the ones on the phone. At night this fall there has been almost a “boardwalk” atmosphere along the stone wall at Miantonomi when the Seabees come to be fed.  The media have picked up the story.  The Seabees have caused a stir, and rightly so.  Someone is going to get bitten.  These are wild animals.

Scientist Numi Mitchell holds the fully-grown newly-collared coyote as Ralph Pratt, Veterinarian, and Technician Tracy Johnson remove the noose restraint and muzzle prior to release.  Photo David Hansen, Newport Daily News

Further, the Seabees do not need the food – their original territory can readily provide enough natural foods to support the pack.  During most of November, however, it appeared that the Seabees were so pleased with their arrangement at Miantonomi they abandoned about three-quarters of the land a normal coyote pack needs to survive, in this case, most Naval Station Newport.  The northern region of the Base, traditionally Seabee territory, was being visited by coyotes from the next pack north.  In fact, in view of the military context, we might describe the early winter situation revealed by the collar transmissions as follows:

 “The Commander of the Seabees has stationed troops at several vantage points on the hillsides of Miantonomi Park .  These wooded encampments provide effective daytime cover and easy nightly access to provisions in the village below.  We have relaxed our guard on Seabee-held territory north of Connell Highway as these regions are not critical at this point.  Our borders appear secure…”

 And from an upper-level officer in the Lower Portsmouth Pack (a mature collared male) we might get this concurrent report to Command:

“I breached the North Sector of Seabee-held territory through a hole in the perimeter fencing south of our Wanumetonomy Rabbit Mess during two missions: 9-10 and 18-21 November.  I located and made camp in abandoned Seabee outposts, one at the Exchange and one near Gate 4, from which I based nightly recons.  I encountered no enemy activity on NAVSTA during either mission.  On 20 November, to determine the enemy’s actual position, I advanced to a woodlot two and-a-half clicks

south of our Border behind Wal-Mart.  I could smell Seabees had just been there.  I held my ground figuring I could rapidly retreat to Gate 4 if they approached.  I could hear the howls of troops at Miantonomi encampments, 1000 feet from me, but saw no evidence of troop movement towards the Base at any time. My surveillance to date strongly indicates the Seabees have suspended patrols there.  Commander, I recommend we take the North Sector – at least to the Fire Station…”

At this point we have a good idea how the Lower Portsmouth Campaign ends and what happens to the seemingly-complacent Seabees.  With the onset of colder weather in November, most people stopped feeding coyotes at Miantonomi and began to stay inside instead of gathering at the stone wall waiting for coyotes to come.  In search of food our collared female began expanding her travels to include the Base as did her sibling Seabee (photographed with rabbit and onlooker Nov 30).  Apparently they met resistance to their return to the base.  By late winter the male coyote from Lower Portsmouth, and presumably others of his pack, had taken over the northern end of the Navy base as their defended territory.  Significantly, the area contained the former den site of the Seabees. With too small a territory and resultant decrease in natural foods to support them the Seabees were scattered to the winds.  Our collared female became a nomad roaming between Common Fence and Brenton Points.  As of April 2007, her mother, unable to return to her more secluded den site on the Base denned near the Forty Steps just off Bellevue Avenue, Newport.  Because she has been hand fed she is not afraid

Photo Jim Travassos

of people.  She is frequently seen during the day, alarms residents, and has landed front page press several times.  She now has six or seven pups she is raising in center city. 

Strangely the Seabee subsidization story is not unique in Newport County ; it’s just the most publicized example.  Our research over the past year has shown that this pack of coyotes and every other pack on Aquidneck Island and Jamestown are being subsidized by humans.  Whether they are eating road kills, pet food on porches, cat food put out for feral cats, feral cats, pet cats, or steak scraps, a plethora of subsidies they enjoy are all coming directly or indirectly from us.  Remember fat coyotes are fertile coyotes.  In the meantime, our biggest challenge is to get people to stop feeding The Seabees.  They will then go off and be normal coyotes - and we can just enjoy a glimpse from time to time.   

Those interested in following the story can watch it unfold online as we download the hourly locations of these coyotes, and others, over the next year.