“It’s a coyote! The coyote is here!” This isn’t an Aesop’s fable. Someone shouts, and everyone turns. Dog owners, in near panic, rush to grab their unleashed pets. It’s almost sundown, and the park is fairly crowded—tourists resting at the picnic tables, couples strolling, young adults lounging on the grass, families with children at the playground, and dog owners letting their pets run free in the off-leash zone.
Far from where I’m standing atop Alamo Square, an urban coyote looks our way, standing tall and noble. Several dogs—some big, some small—react to its presence and begin charging toward it. The coyote, unfazed, takes off the moment it notices the commotion, lifting its legs in a light, graceful trot, showing no sign of fear. After it disappears from view, we keep talking about it, trading stories of other coyote sightings across the city. Many complain about coyotes interfering with or yipping at dogs on leashes “for no reason.”
Coyotes in San Francisco have a bad reputation—and not without reason. They’re wild animals, and as such, hunt what they perceive as prey, including outdoor cats and small dogs. With numerous reports of fatal incidents and missing pets, many residents understandably see them as a threat. And they’re not just seen in green spaces. One was spotted howling on a bar rooftop in densely populated Chinatown. Another made headlines in Time Magazine after being photographed lounging on patio furniture in the backyard of OpenAI CEO Sam Altman’s $27 million Russian Hill home. From our human-centered perspective, it may seem like they’re getting a little too comfortable with city life.
But how many of us have considered the coyotes’ point of view—that we are the ones encroaching on their territory? According to Janet Kessler, also known as the Coyote Lady, a self-taught local naturalist who has observed San Francisco’s coyotes for the past 18 years, “Each pack sets its own territory and lives within those boundaries. Even among themselves, coyotes don’t share space. They coexist by marking territory with their urine.” Dogs don’t get this—and neither do the humans who accompany them. From the coyotes’ perspective, dogs—even leashed—are intruders. That’s why they charge.
Interestingly, coyotes and domestic dogs both belong to the Canine family. Biologically, they’re close enough to interbreed, yet in the wild, they rarely do. It’s not clear why coyotes harbor such hostility toward dogs. As Kessler puts it, “Coyotes just don’t like dogs and cannot relax around them, no matter how nice or friendly they might be—just like humans don’t like hornets, no matter what.” Even if we find certain coyote behaviors—such as eating a cat or yipping at a leashed dog—unacceptable, trying to see the world from their perspective helps us understand what motivates their actions.
So when did coyotes become a “problem”? Ask anyone who grew up in San Francisco, and they’ll likely say the same thing: there were no coyotes in this city during their childhoods. Encounters were expected on hiking trails or camping trips in nearby towns, where people also watched out for cougars, bobcats, and rattlesnakes—but not in the heart of the city.
The first urban sightings were reported in the early 2000s. Initially, people assumed the coyotes had migrated from the south, since San Francisco is a peninsula bordered by water on three sides, with its only land connection to the south. However, the first captured coyote was found to be most genetically related to populations from Marin County—San Francisco’s northern neighbor across the Golden Gate Bridge. How it reached the city remains a mystery, and there’s even an intriguing conspiracy theory about human-assisted relocation.
In any case, the coyote population steadily grew. Sightings surged during the COVID-19 pandemic, when the city fell quiet under quarantine mandates. With significantly fewer people, bikes, and cars around, coyotes seemed more at ease roaming and mating in daylight. Many residents—especially dog walkers—began noticing them more frequently. As of February 2025, the city’s Animal Care and Control estimates there are about 100 coyotes living within city limits.
Some argue that coyotes are invading our land and should be relocated to the wilderness. But that idea is not only selfish—it’s also not feasible as the California Department of Fish & Wildlife prohibits relocation. There are no coyote sanctuaries, and no other cities want to take in more—they already have plenty of their own.
More importantly, coyotes are native to this area. Indigenous oral traditions across California tell of a time when humans and coyote coexisted. In some versions of these stories, Coyote is even cast as the creator—or co-creator—of the world and of humans themselves. This suggests coyotes may have been here even before the arrival of Native peoples, who have lived in the region for at least 10,000 years. So, if the question is who took over whose land, the answer is clear.
Sadly, coyotes vanished from San Francisco over a century ago, along with many other wildlife species once labeled as “vermin”. Early Western settlers hunted or poisoned them to protect food supplies and livestock while urban expansion steadily wiped out their natural habitat. The bond between humans and coyotes was broken when we decided they were too troublesome—and not worth sharing space with.
Today, coyotes are back, and people have mixed feelings about their return. Most pet owners still dislike them— understandably so. Others are unsure, as coyotes rarely pose a threat to humans although that could change if we become more antagonistic. And then there are those, like myself, who are mesmerized by their wild nobility and resilience. Coyotes survive entirely on their own—hunting food, building dens, raising families. Our beloved dogs, by contrast, have long lost those instincts, having grown completely dependent on us.
While public sentiment varies, local wildlife experts—including the San Francisco Animal Care and Control and the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department—advocate for coexistence with coyotes, even in an urban environment. Kessler is also one of these advocates. She explains: “Coyotes are wild, and they’re both reactive and proactive—they message their needs. They do so in a universal, interspecies language that we can all understand. Once we humans understand their family life and needs, it’s much easier to see that their sometimes-scary behavior isn’t aggression—it’s protection. It only looks aggressive to people who don’t understand coyotes.”
My biggest takeaway from speaking with Kessler is that sustainable interspecies relationships require mutual understanding and clear communication. Both humans and coyotes need to adapt and respect shared boundaries. We need to send a consistent message that our leftovers and pets are off-limits. That means securing trash bins, keeping pet food indoors, and never feeding coyotes—no matter how cute or curious they appear.
Some people mistake them for stray dogs and offer food, but this conditions coyotes to associate humans with meals and increases the risk of conflict. As Tali Caspi, a researcher with Department of Environmental Science and Policy and the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, warns that feeding alters coyote behavior towards humans and is a key factor in human-coyote clashes. It invites them into our neighborhoods and makes them feel welcome. On the other hand, if we make food harder to access, they may eventually move out of urban areas on their own in search of more natural fare—such as gophers, voles, raccoons, squirrels, snakes, and waterbirds, as well as figs, berries, and even cacti.
In the meantime, we continue to share this space. There’s no need to react with hostility—or excessive friendliness—when a coyote appears. If a coyote approaches you in what seems like an aggressive manner, you may be near its den. In that case, simply walk away. If needed, make eye contact, clap your hands, wave your arms, and speak in a calm but firm voice. If the coyote doesn’t retreat, Kessler recommends to throw in something near it (but not at it) to signal you’re a threat without intending to harm. Project Coyote—a nonprofit organization dedicated to protecting North America’s wild carnivores, including coyotes, wolves, and foxes—also educates local dog owners on similar strategies. These methods help reinforce boundaries and teach coyotes to stay wild and wary. With a little respect and empathy, we can avoid unnecessary fear, enmity, or violence.
As the experts mentioned above suggest, coyotes are incredibly adaptable. Ultimately, it’s up to us to decide what kind of relationship we want to rebuild with them. Perhaps we’ve been given a second chance—to repair a long-severed bond with coyotes and reimagine San Francisco as a shared, more-than-human space where ecological boundaries blend and overlap.
If we are uncertain how to relate to coyotes today, we might look to the past. In Native California folktales, the human-coyote relationship was anything but simple. Coyote wasn’t the loyal companion we associate with dogs, nor was he an outright villain. Instead, he was something far more complex: a clever trickster, an unpredictable ally, a foolish wanderer, and, at times, a generous helper.
These tales reveal a relationship rich in nuance—marked by both conflict and cooperation. Like a wily relative in any extended family, the coyote could frustrate, amuse, or charm, yet always remained part of the multi-species community. Humans, coyotes, and countless other species—bears, rabbits, foxes, owls, eagles, grasshoppers, and many more—once shared this land in a web of interspecies kinship grounded in mutual recognition and entanglement.
Just today, I came across an online post from a dog owner who had outfitted her small dog with a spiked coyote-proof vest as a response to the rising presence of urban coyotes. It was a striking example of what coexistence can look like when approached with openness and ingenuity. Rather than rushing to lethal solutions, it’s possible to rethink how we navigate the challenges of rebuilding a human-coyote relationship that leaves room for dialogue, adaptation, and mutual survival.
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