Fantastic Mr Fox – an encounter

Urban foxes – we see them all the time, usually scooting across the road in front of the car at 5 a.m. or perched up high on their wheelie-bin thrones.

Yes, their fur is the traditional red colour, but it resembles the faded edges of velvet curtains that have hung in the window for fifty years and their eyes look like lemon sherberts dotted with ants.

Today I am not dressed for the occasion. Certainly I am not fit to be blessed with the presence of nature. But maybe today the fox with his equally ragged attire found it easier to come a little closer.

I got out of the car and shuffled over to the fence where the garage is and waited while the cold grass crept up into my shoes. We spoke silently for a few seconds, our eyes locked together. And then, as though it was a magic spell all of it’s own, my smile sent him scampering back down out of sight – although I did feel that if I had waited some more we could have played this game together all day.

Fox