The Fox, the Forest, and the Frogs

A young red fox appeared outside my back door at the start of July. The mammal was not noticeably wounded, but it was short of breath, moving slowly, and trying to hide. There was a heatwave in London so I offered a bowl of tap water, but I felt like I was missing the point, and not just because foxes prefer rainwater.

Our Spanish octogenarian neighbour, who has seen everything before, said the fox appeared to be poisoned, looked ready to die, and there was nothing we could do except prepare to bury it well. There is no soon-to-be dead-fox modus operandi in my part of the world that I am aware of, if only because foxes exist in a civically ambiguous place. For some, they are exotic urban wildlife, cute undomesticated pets and spiritual allies. But they are also prolific excrementarians who squeal at night and ransack bin bags.

I would have helped if I had known what to do. I imagined myself wrapping the ailing being in a blanket and taking it by public trnsport to a vet, but that seemed vainglorious. I also wondered if we had a spade in the shed if our neighbour was right, and hesitated. The family got diverted by whatever was happening in the kitchen, and the fox momentarily shuffled away from view.

Within an hour, I went out to look, and found the fox a few metres away, lying on its side, no longer breathing. It was behind a bike wheel, near a brick wall that matched its fur. I am not sure I could have done anything to keep it alive, but I felt sad and confounded. Why did that happen? I was not concerned to know what the fox might have eaten or where it had travelled from. I was in a hermeneutic mode, sensing that what I was obliged to witness meant something. Did this enigmatic fox really show up on my doorstep to be seen to die, by me, at this particular juncture of my life?

Some readers may relate to that inquiry (thank you for being here) and there are poems and folklore about the symbolism of dying foxes. But I also know how ridiculous, anthropocentric, narcissistic, or proto-psychotic this notion could sound.

It’s about the poor fox, you conceited fool, it’s not all about you! You think, with all its cunning, this ambassador for Vulpes ...