Ever since the days when our ancestors first walked on two feet, men have demonstrated their skill and courage by hunting big game.

(FOR THE RECORD: This does not apply to Dr. Walter Palmer, who instead demonstrated that there is such a thing as bad publicity.)

Stories of their exploits have been passed down from generation to generation, until most of us are convinced we are descended from Ernest Hemingway.

This is one of those stories.

Last week there was a big game hunt in my backyard. It was everything you’ve read about in authoritative magazines such as National Geographic, National Wildlife, and MAD.

The only difference was that the big game was hunting me.

I awoke from a dream about chapter 14 of my next book to find myself face to face with a coyote.

While not exactly in the lion-tiger-rhinoceros category, coyotes are definitely dangerous if for no other reason then they have the soul of a wolf and the voice of a Florence Foster Jenkins.

Also, they have sharp teeth, strong jaws, blinding speed, and the unshakable belief that chowing down on your left arm is a good start.

Witnesses have reported seeing coyotes carry off small animals, including rabbits, squirrels, and the occasional schnauzer.

No witnesses have reported that they, themselves, were carried off by coyotes, but that doesn’t mean it never happens. Since coyotes live deep in the hills it’s possible those witnesses wound up with no cellphone service.

It’s also possible cellphone service was the least of their problems.

When a man comes face to face with his fears, his first thoughts naturally turn to his wife. So I was hardly surprised to find myself thinking, “I wonder if my wife will be able to tell if I wet my pants?”

My second thought focused on the three rules of dealing with fear. The first is don’t panic. The other two aren’t relevant because no one gets past rule one.

My adversary took a step toward me.

“Don’t come any closer,” I yelled. “I was a Boy Scout.”

It confidently took another step. Somehow it recognized that I grew up in the Bronx and therefore the sum total of my outdoor survival skills was knowing how to get a cab in the rain and which arm to use for my allergy injections.

I did recall a guy at Starbucks insisting that when threatened by a wild animal you should puff yourself up to look as large and threatening as possible. Or, you should expose your neck and stomach as a sign of surrender.

It was one of the two.

I compromised by pulling up my t-shirt and showing the coyote where I was carrying those 15 extra pounds.

You’re probably thinking, “Jay, how did you find the courage to subdue the beast and spare your wife the pain of coming home to nothing more than a pair of damp jeans?

“Or someone has taken over your blog and is writing some pretty good stuff. Will he keep it up?”

Is that something you’d ask Hemingway?

“I dare you to take one more step,” I said. Not a problem for the coyote, but I backed up into a closed French door.

That’s when I discovered that my allergy injections for pet dander weren’t nearly as effective against wild animal dander.

About 30 seconds into my five-minute sneezing fit the coyote panicked. It scaled a six-foot, chain-link fence, landed in the neighbor’s yard, ran up the hill, jumped another fence, and hasn’t been heard from since.

Apparently, this coyote was a bigger hypochondriac than my mother.

The moral of this story is that when encountering a coyote spare yourself unnecessary anxiety by inquiring about its phobias.

And definitely carry a spare pair of jeans.