Family Forum / Parenting / Mothers / June 2009

i drowsily awoke to the sensation of a small form melding itself to
mine, and the voice, slurred with sleep, saying she would be there for
the rest of the night. there's a fox in the garden, it's calling and
keeping me awake. calling? yes. what does it sound like? cue exterior
wild animal sound. that's what it sounds like. like a bark more than a
howl, a high pitched and alien arf arf arf. she snuggled closer, and
was warm. arf arf arf again. the digital red of the clock says 4:48 so
i mentally subtract 13 minutes and decide it's still early. but i'm
awake. i'm going to see, i said, and slipped sideways out from under
the covers, taking care not to let an icy blast engulf my hard won
heat. you'll have to climb into the top bunk, i was informed. i duly
did so, "teentily", blessing the fact that although it was dark i'd
remembered my glasses avoiding a trip back to the bedside cabinet,
followed by another trip to the top. i edged closer to the window,
avoiding sudden movements, and saw him, as he barked again. arf arf
arf. beautiful. and again. but why, it's unusual behaviour, is he
rabid, what's that next to him... every time the fox points his snout
upwards and barks the dim of the streetlights behind the nanny park
shine on something on the ground. it's another fox, lying still and
silent. what's happened i wonder, why is there a dead fox in the
garden? poison perhaps. by this time i'm no longer a lone observer,
and she's next to me again. i point out the other one, gently, with a
hug, because death brings upset for cubs, and have my suspicions
swiftly smashed when she tells me that what i have mistaken for a dead
fox is in actual fact a plastic garden chair, which has rolled onto
its side during yesterdays winds. ah. the spectacles are spectacular
then. but it's just gone half four in the morning, and dark. arf arf
arf. then movement, undoubtably movement, on a smaller scale, i'm not
wrong this time, look, there's a baby fox too! she looks. that's not a
baby fox mum, that's max. panic in the voice, which i don't pick up
on. i'm going to take a photo i said, and negotiated my way carefully
down the ladder. she swung herself effortlessly down to floor level
and followed me down the stairs. we grabbed the camera and moved
through to the cold kitchen, again moving slowly so as not to disturb
nature in action. it's dark, i can't get focussed and my tripod is
impossibly buried under the froth of future freecycling in the
cupboard under the stairs. i check for obvious wet spots, there are
none, so i balance the camera on the sink corner, hoping to get a good
enough shot. arf arf arf. the fox is fast. max, it is max, is now on
the outside table and i see the fox pour himself smoothly down onto
the patio in one slink movement. he's crouching down looking up and
max is crouching up, looking down. max is acting strangely, on
tiptoes, or claws, making sudden, almost aggressive, thrusts towards
the fox, and the fox is still crouching and snaking from side to side.
they're both concentrating very hard. i'm shaking mum, and she is, her
voice as well as her body. i hear the panic this time, and soothingly
reassure her. it's okay, max is okay, it's only a fox, it's nothing to
worry about, it can't hurt him. oh. suddenly i remember the urban myth
of urban foxes who, finding food scarce because of the introduction of
wheelie bins, now prey on cats, and a chill grips my spine. the image
of the cunning fox sneaking at night into the henhouse and wreaking
havoc turns the situation on its head in my head and it occurs to me
that max isn't acting strangely at all, his vicious thrusts and the
fact that his whole attention is focussed on the fox are perfectly
understandable when you realise that he's concerned for his life. i
see now that the situation isn't max and foxy play nicely together,
it's max, meet predator. now let us commence a fight to the death. and
i want to open the back door to let max in and i don't want to open
the back door to let max in, because the fox is right there, and what
if as max comes into the kitchen the fox comes too? and what if even
the action of me making my presence known to nature could make max's
attention momentarily waver, it might be enough to swing the balance
into foxy's favour. i must have stiffened, moved sharply, made some
sort of sign, because the fox froze, and stared straight at me. we
gazed at each other for the moment he stayed there, then he was off,
up the garden and away, gone. i opened the door and max bounded in,
hyped up and crazed. all three of us were wide awake by this point in
the proceedings, cocoa would have been appropriate but it didn't occur
to me, and there was no milk anyway. max was allowed upstairs as a
special treat after his experience, where he sucked the quilt and
purred loudly until little by little, one by one, the three of us
entered the realm of morpheus once more. arf!