The Fox
When I woke up, I saw there was a fox curled up like a cat sleeping in
the flower bed. I saw it from the inside of the house. At first I wasn’t
really sure what it was, so I went outside to take a look.
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It was mostly grey, dark grey like the color of rain heavy clouds, but
feathered all around its legs and tail was a fiery red. It looked as if the
grey clouds of its coat were putting out a fire storm.
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Its eyes were closed and it twitched like it was dreaming. I snapped my fingers but it didn’t move. I clapped my hands and whistled and its eyes opened slowly. I expected it to wake with a start, realize it had over slept and run off across the street to the nearby green belt. However, it looked straight at me, its eyes were black as the smoke from fire on its coat, and it laid its head back down and closed its eyes again. That was when I realized it was sick, or hurt. Not only was it too late in the day for the fox to be out, but it would’ve ran off at the first sniff of me if it were healthy.
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The first thing I thought of was the box of .22 shells on my desk. But I was in a neighborhood and neighbors and police tend to look down on firing guns in the city limits. I thought it would be in everyone’s best interest to call animal control.
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I got my cell phone and went back outside to flag them down whenever they came by. I also wanted to keep an eye on the fox. Traffic was starting to pick up. People were jogging past or walking their dogs, but no one noticed the wild animal sleeping in my flower bed. The fox noticed me though, it raised its head and when it did a long stream of drool fell out of the side of its mouth. Its marble black eyes looked around and saw me. It strained to get to its feet and slowly walked toward me. My eyes widened, my heart beat increased and I was tripping backwards once I realized he was a few fox strides away. I could’ve easily been bitten if he charged.
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He wasn’t limping, he wasn’t foaming, but he wasn’t moving fast either. After I took a few terrified steps back he slowly turned around and staggered away taking his time to disappear through a hole under my rental house. A few moments later the animal control showed up.
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It was a woman about my age and said she couldn’t go under my house. She suggested I get a live trap and some cat food to lure it out. She said it probably had distemper if anything, not rabies, but she told me not to touch it if I did trap it. I thanked her and she went on her way. So now I had a sick fox under my house. The last thing I wanted was a dead fox under my house, but all I could do was keep an eye out for it, or a nose, and hope it went somewhere else to die.
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I felt somewhat embarrassed when the animal control showed up, and stupid, like I was some suburban moron who didn’t know what to do when faced with a wild animal. It wouldn’t have been the first time I killed a fox, even the gun I wanted to use had shot a fox once, not to mention the countless skunks, ‘coons, and rabbits from my youth. But those were different times. I was killing them for sport or bounty, something I had abandoned long ago. I no longer killed for sport. I still hunted for meat, but to kill a fox for no good reason wasn’t in my character anymore. I would’ve much rather seen the fox get up and run off. Maybe he just got lost and took a nap. Maybe he overslept and didn’t realize the sun was up and he was far from home. That could happen to a fox right?
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Not this one though. It was sick, and knowing it was sick wouldn’t have made me feel bad about shooting it. I didn’t know if it had been hit by a car, or had rabies or distemper or whatever. Now it was under my house, and there wasn’t much I could do about it.
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I went back to doing things around the house and a few hours later I went outside. The fox was now laying in the front yard, curled up just as before. This time I kept my distance and didn’t try to arouse it. I called animal control again and waited outside with a distant eye hoping it didn’t get away. It did get up once and walked in a tight circle before falling on the ground. That’s when I knew it probably didn’t have long to go. I still didn’t see it limp like it had been hit, but I saw a full side view. Its color was still amazing; fire red and cloudy grey. It even had a beautiful shape. Its head had sharp features, its nose and ears came to distinct points, its tail was like a plume of smoky fire and its delicate legs and small black paws gracefully moved under its sleek frame. But it was also skinny, even for a wild animal and it was panting frantically with thin wisps of drool raining from its sinister teeth.
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It was then I really wanted to shoot it. Bury it in the ground and let it have some peace. When animal control showed up they would garrote it, stuff it in a cage and probably put it down by some method they defined as humane. Then they’d cremate it and its remains would mix with all the other ashes from unwanted and destroyed cats and dogs from some sad shelter.
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So I watched it dying on my front lawn as I had an existential crisis. Should I kill it? Take the risk of firing a gun in a neighborhood just so it’d have a dignified burial? It wasn’t about being macho or cruel, this was about mercy and dignity. One good shot to the head would end its suffering, and as close as it was, that would not be a challenge. After all, the fox came to me right? Did he know something I didn’t? Did he know I could end his suffering? Did he consciously wind up at my house for me to take on the responsibility? I called animal control again accepting the responsibility, but not handling it the way I wanted to.
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I thought about the last fox I’d killed long ago. How he was just minding his own business on a cool moonlit night looking for something to eat when a hot piece of lead hit him out of nowhere. I remember he was still alive when I walked up on it. It gave me a wild eyed defiant hiss before I finished it off. Those in the field seemed bigger, redder; their coats almost blazing in the night. But the one in my yard was so grey, so pitiful. It didn’t even have the energy to hiss or struggle when animal control finally came.
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It was the same woman. She got her garrote stick and a rusty cage. The fox barely lifted its head when she put the loop over it. The fox didn’t move when she picked it up by the neck and dropped it in the cage. Its sooty legs and smoky tail still hung out of the cage and it made no effort to move them. She kind of nudged it into the cage and closed the lid.
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The fox picked up its triangle head and panted. Its black eyes although distant seemed to fix on me as animal control picked it up and put it in the truck. A sort of sorrow drifted over me and I only hoped the fox was curable and may be let loose somewhere else perhaps to find its home again.
After they left, a black and white cat with a wild look on its face came from under the house from the same hole the fox had entered and few hours before. I could only imagine what the cat was thinking.
