Why doesn’t the coyote run?

A question, as a child, I had always asked myself.

It was a cartoon show that ran every Sunday morning; 8:30 sharp. My mom would already be busying herself with house-hold chores, while my father sat on his maroon recliner, sipping black tea from his “Greatest Dad” mug.

I’d be staring wide-eyed at the game of cat-and-mouse between a thin and mangy coyote and a quick and cunning road runner. The thing about the coyote is, he wants so desperately to sink his teeth into the feather-covered flesh of the bird, but it is simply too fast.

And after an exhausting chase, the coyote retires, coming to the conclusion that today won’t be the day. But, as his awful luck would have it, some tragic event always happens at the end.

Looming above his head, something heavy – pianos, irons, trucks – casts an ominous shadow over his frail frame. And the part that always frustrated me was the fact that he took the time to look above him, gulp his fear, and continue to gawk at the heavy object already plummeting to the earth, getting ready to send him to his death.

But why doesn’t he run?

For the split second he has to save his life, he just stands there.

I would cover my eyes with my yellow and white blanky, until the loud crash and boom sounds ended. My dad would laugh at me and my mom would threaten me from the kitchen, saying if I was too afraid to watch it, she would ban the show from our home.