Mr Fox and us

London is full of foxes; that is a known fact. They are everywhere, and they are not shy at all; in fact, they are bolder than your average cat on the street.

Anyhow, we have a relatively large and uncultivable garden at the back of the house, with a small stream serving as a border. (I say “stream”, but it’s more like a sewer…) Naturally enough we have foxes visiting all the time.

My dearest was sitting and smoking one day on the small patio, when a fox jogged up to her. He stopped about a meter and a half from her, drank from a pot full of rain water, peed on her lavenders, and then left without even nodding at her.

I don’t even detail our reaction when we heard some blood-curling cries one night; even though we knew foxes make the most awful noises, it sounded as if he was slowly being skinned. If this is how you sound when you’re having a good time, I don’t want to know how you sound when you’re in a bad mood.

This particular individual has also have a fixation on shoes. We leave the gardening shoes outside normally; after all, the whole place is more of a mud-plain, rather than a garden. One morning I realized that one of my shoes was missing. After some searching we found it in the shrubs by the stream; apparently, the size 10.5 was too large for our thief with a shoe fetish to drag it off. The laces were chewed off, though. Next morning -we should have known better by then- my dearest’s shoe went completely missing; it was lighter and smaller, so Mr Fox could take it away to his den to live out whatever unspeakable desires prompted him to thievery.
To this day I don’t understand why he chose the shoes. Perhaps foxes share this deep-seated need to chew footwear with dogs.


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