An Urban Fox

The sharp bark of the dog cut through the audio from my iPod the other night. I tugged the earphones loose and listened to the yelping and scratching that came from the other side of the pub’s walled garden. For a moment I thought the frantic pooch might be baying at me. I stopped just where the wall meets the pavement. In the shadows cast by the crane from the construction site nearby, I saw the bristling back of a waist-high creature sway as it walked toward me. The dog tore at the stone as if his claws were pickaxes.

A well-fed, ruddy fox stopped six feet from me. His front half spilled out into the light. His haunches remained safe in the darkness.

“Hello Fox,” I said. “Lovely evening.”

No, I did not expect a reply. The habit of talking with animals developed as a boy when left alone with the menagerie of animals my family kept. Those few times I fed the horses, they seemed to appreciate a kind - or stern - word in the morning. Of course my mother spoke with the horses or the dogs when caring for or training them and it always seems to make sense.

Just the other week I revisited the deer at Knole Park in Sevenoaks and had a word. I think the deer would have preferred a block of salt, but generously gave me her attention and a few moments of time before rejoining the herd.

I had little practise reading the expression of foxes, so I couldn’t say if the fox looked at me quizzically, contemptuously or with eyes pleading for a scrap of food. Since the fox remained calm, I felt him to be more friend than foe. The yapping of the dog bothered him, though, and he trotted away from the hound - and straight toward me.

“Loud dog, eh? Well, hope you find some delicious scraps tonight. Um, bye.”

I smiled and continued along the pavement toward my flat which really wasn’t too terribly far away. I suppose I could have invited him over for a cup of tea and a bit of panettone (the Marks and Spencer variety I bought quite randomly the other day and which I disliked - large sugar cubes on top, more for dunking in coffee than a cake), but I usually don’t host foxes in the sitting room.

I turned around to see where the fox went and found he walked with me only a few paces behind. Despite my inexperience with fox expressions, I think he smiled at me as he scampered along the pavement. I stopped and turned and gave the fox pause.

“Very sorry, Fox, but you really can’t come over tonight. I’m just coming back from a screening and need to get some things done before bed.”

Things, eh? The fox was unimpressed, but not entirely surprised. Still, he smiled at me.

“If you cross the road - carefully, Fox - and turn the corner there, you’ll find the rear of a restaurant. Surely something yummy awaits? Good evening Fox, hope to see you again.”

He crossed the road with me and then branched off in the direction I suggested. The dog at the pub finally relaxed and did something doggy and quiet on the other side of the rock wall. I slid the gold key (difficult to tell the difference between the gold and silver keys at night) into the lock of my door and thought I really should make the fox a cup of tea and bring out a slice of that panettone for him to try.

I knew it would be a good day this morning as soon as I left the house. My contacts clouded over a bit as I rushed into the darkness of the road at 7am. I walked past the cafe and that charming fox trotted out of number 103 to greet me. We stood about two feet from each other, I wished him a very good morning and continued on to the Underground.

Such a well-mannered fox.