Living in London I am in the constant presence of the urban fox. At night I hear the eery sounds of their mating dance – like a child screaming. By day I encounter them in my garden or catch glimpses of them from the train. Sometimes, when I’m walking, I encounter one in the road. There will be a distance and wary glances but no running away. In London, foxes know they belong.
Often, the state of their fur will tell its own story of their age and the challenges of living in an urban environment. Only rarely do I see a young fox, free from injury and with a coat that speaks of a rich diet – perhaps of its mother’s milk. And when I do I am both struck by the beauty of the animal and slightly unsettled as I remember my heritage as a farmer’s daughter. It’s easy to imagine my father rolling in his grave – wielding some celestial shotgun, even. Farmers and foxes are not friends.
Recently I woke up one weekend morning to spy a fox – a vixen – in my garden, nestled by the fence behind my baby broad beans. You can just about see her in the grainy photo I took (above) on my mobile phone. With a day’s gardening in prospect I wondered if she would still be there after breakfast. She was. When I stepped into the garden it was easy to see why: as she left the garden she was limping, badly. I had the sense she would not go far.
She didn’t. Returning to the garden a little later I found her still there. I trod lightly and still expected her to move. She didn’t. I started digging, knowing that she needed to rest and even so, quite quickly, I began to wonder. It is not a natural thing for a fox to stay in the presence of a human, especially a human armed with a spade and digging just a few feet from its head. I wondered whether to offer her water and sustenance and even as I wondered what I would use to put water in I realised that no, I needed to take advice from the RSPCA. In the end they came and took her away.
It was only shortly before they arrived that I realised the full extent of her injuries. Watching her move I caught a glimpse of the bones exposed at the top inside of one of her legs. No wonder she had been so still and quiet. I sensed that I was probably in the presence of a dying animal. I wanted to ask the man from the RSPCA what the likely outcome was – and somehow could not bring myself to. I am still wondering.
It’s hard to find words to convey the sacred quality of this experience. It was a time to honour her in the midst of her own experience and, by honouring her, to honour life – and death.