Here First, Here Forever

The sun had passed its high mark. People with their pets had come and gone from Tustin Legacy dog park. This timed territorial shift, a morning migration, happened every day. And every day, Coyote quietly loped along the perimeter of the Bark Barracks until an otherwise oblivious owner noticed him. The curious canid stared from the safety of his side of the fence when a two-legged day-tripper made a commotion by waving their arms and banging the fence. Most of the dogs watched Coyote quietly, except for the miniature breeds that yapped incessantly inside their outdoor cage. The diminutive domesticated dogs didn’t bother him though—rarely anything bothered the adolescent.

Now the runners and walkers were mostly gone. A few stragglers wandered around the winding trails. They were loners like Coyote, content to keep their own company.  He knew exactly how close he could get before eliciting a fight-or-flight response in these humans. Most veered away to keep a civilized distance, but some stayed calm and unbothered, kindred souls whose bipedal steps beat out a relaxed tempo.

The larger pack with their pets would be back before dusk. And so would the desert cottontails that ran along the man-made landscape, designed to look as how nature originally intended. The playful predator had plenty of rabbits to chase on his private 52 acres at the corner of Red Hill and Warner Avenues where he kept his den and slept most days. Today, he decided to entertain himself with some juvenile delinquency. 

Traffic zoomed along Red Hill Avenue as it intersected Barranca Parkway. Fewer cars ran north-south at this time of day. Life slowed down for suburbanites in the late afternoon on weekdays as they retreated into air-conditioned office spaces, their bellies full from lunch. Coyote didn’t slow down nor speed up. No, he kept a constant pace, a gait somewhere between lackadaisical and unhurried as he ambled along Red Hill.  He never waited for the crosswalk signals at the intersections. That was for pedestrians, not for him. He was anything but pedestrian. He preferred to illegally cross the eight lanes before the Victory Road intersection. If he mistimed his meandering, he could wait in the median. Coyote never sprinted because he knew the ebb and flow of his neighborhood, his barrio, his territory. He kept things easy.

He strolled down the sidewalk past the new apartment homes, offices, and warehouses. He didn’t see anyone, but there were signs that they were around. People always left behind trash in bins and cans, on the sidewalk, in the brush, everywhere—like droppings. It was a strange way to mark their territory. Far less civilized than his own territorial pissings that sent a clear message. He never understood what humans were communicating with their trash. But the trash attracted the brown Norway rats and the black Roof rats—foreigners that didn’t belong here but still made here their home. They weren’t of the land, which made them easier to catch than the cottontails. He liked it when things were easy.

He made his way to the construction area on Red Hill and Bell Avenues. The machines had quieted, and the workmen had deserted the area weeks ago. Another business complex torn down to make way for progress. Progress that was change, but not necessarily betterment. At least not for him, not for the land which had been so many things before. His ancestors sauntered across the rancheras, farms, citrus groves, and even a military base with its two blimp hangars. His ancestors had known what the land was like before—a dry, dusky plain with sycamores, toyon, purple sage, and thickets of wild mustard. Similar to but still so different from the man-made park. A legacy now turned into mixed-use retail developments that brought more traffic, more people, and an army of dogs to fill the Bark Barracks. So what exactly did progress look like this time? 

The sign read, No Trespassing, but those words were meaningless to him. He sized up the chain-link fence. He could easily jump over it, but the burlap brown privacy screen blocked his view of the other side. The last thing he wanted was to land awkwardly on uneven ground or leftover machinery. Some areas of the screen peeled back like skin on a carcass—a left-behind, leftover of this so-called progress. There were also intermittent holes to let the wind pass through, but he would have to stop and stand on his hind legs to see inside. No, he’d find another way in, one that would attract less attention. He walked the perimeter of the fence and found a deep groove beneath a chained gate where the trucks had come and gone. He slipped underneath the fence—simple breaking and entering. Yes Trespassing.

Gone was the building and its blacktop parking lot. Gone were the trash bins and scurrying rodents. The land was turned upside down and inside out. The dormant bulldozer had pushed the crushed concrete into mounds. A backhoe and other equipment stood silent among the rubble. Diesel and other chemical smells lingered in the area. It was worse than the usual human scents but bearable. He lowered his head and sniffed the ground to see if any squirrels, Botta’s pocket gophers, or broad-footed moles had moved into the area. They hadn’t and probably moved on just like the rats. For now, he had an easily conquered concrete kingdom to himself.

Coyote walked on the parcel of land now reconnected to earth which dusted his paws. Canis latrans ochropus was his name after all—the ochre-footed barking dog. He’d had many names over the years: ꞌiitar, ꞌanóꞌ, coyotl, prairie wolf, brush wolf, American jackal, KY-ote, KY-oh-tee, and so many more. Some captured his true nature as trickster, teacher, survivor. The other names helped man categorize the canid, but Coyote lived here long before man could give him a name. Coyote knew the land even before it was called Tustin, Rancho San Antonio, or El Alisal. Like Coyote, the land didn’t need a name.

He looked at the manufactured hill and clambered up the loose gravel. At the top of the mound, he stood ten feet above the fence line. He rose above the trickle of traffic like the Acjachemen on the real Red Hill—Katuktu, the place of refuge—not this burial mound of business park rubble. He looked back from where he’d come. He could see it all. He saw the dog park, the empty lots ready for the next development, and even the lonely blimp hangar without its twin. Land he shared with red-tailed hawks, white-tailed kites, hummingbirds, and turkey vultures. Land that provided for the rabbits and ground squirrels. Land where the Acjachemen and Tongva roamed, where he still roamed. Coyote would need to find a mate soon to share this kingdom with, but not today. He was responsible only for himself, an easy commitment to keep. 

What would soon be Platform Tustin served as Coyote’s stage—lone comedian without an audience. His tongue peeked out from his open mouth. The song dog stood and took a moment as if to clear his throat. He then let out a riotous cacophony. A melodious howl capped the staccato greeting to declare this land his for this moment in time. Here he lay on the hill where his coat matched the concrete just as it matched the chaparral. Here, he decided to bask under the sun where his past, present, and future existed as an unbroken circle. Coyote smiled as he enjoyed this private joke while looking out across the urban landscape with its patches of man-made wild scrub where his kin—the Coyote— remain Tustin’s true legacy.

*Title image "52-Acre Homestead": A view of an empty field at the location of the abandoned former Marine Corps Air Station Tustin, from behind a chain-link fence at the south corner of Red Hill and Warner Avenues in Tustin, CA. May 25, 2026. © Rick C. Hernandez

Rick C. Hernandez writes short fiction and poetry that explores generational trauma, racial identity, and pre-colonial Philippine and Meso-American culture through the lenses of science fiction, fantasy, and nature. He moderates panel discussions about the intersection of culture, community, and creativity at San Diego Comic-Con and other conventions. He and his brother A-J explore their favorite pop culture fandoms in their podcast Neon Swords & Lasers. He lives in Irvine, California.

19rch76@gmail.com | IG: @rickhernandez76 | Threads: @rickhernandez76