The Visitor
As I stood by the front room windows this morning, looking out onto the pasture, a fox popped up from beneath the sumacs. He trotted along into the back porch garden, paused to mark scent on a big rock by the rosemary and continued on his way. There seemed to be a purpose in the journey. I wanted him to tarry so I could take a picture, but he had places to go. It was obvious he’d been here before, so no need to explore.
I like it that my house lives in the world of a fox. I was less than ten feet from him as he moved along. Of course, he has only the vaguest notion I exist except as a scent. On the one hand, I would like to make his acquaintance. I always enjoy pictures of people interacting with foxes. But on the other hand, I figure no good as ever come to a fox at the hand of humans. We’ve hunted them on horseback with dogs, and we’ve hunted them with guns to wear them as hats or coats. So, it’s best to let us know each other in our respective ways and leave it at that. But I hope to see him again.
Of course, both male and female foxes scent mark, so my visitor could have been a vixen. I’m not experienced enough in the physiology of foxes to be able to identify them on the move. I hope our paths cross again, but I’d be willing to bet most of our encounters will continue to be at night on my game cameras. And I’m okay with that, and I assume the little fox is okay with that, too. Because in the long wrong, there will always be the possibility that one morning, when I rise, our paths will cross again, and my heart will beat a little faster, and it will make me feel good, as does me thinking about it now.