Outfoxed

In the current climate ties must be worn short, drinks must be taken long.

For sheer bloody cheek, the adolescent fox sat outside my front door last night takes the biscuit (and probably the leftover chicken and whatever else he can scrounge from nearby bins).

Urban foxes are nothing new, but one showing this level of relaxation around humans was something new. I immediately wondered if he was hurt but, given the vigorous way he was scratching and licking his balls, I’d guess not. A quick hit on the RSPCA web-site revealed that young foxes are a common sight this time of year and that they have mange.

It then went on to list how to trap one for rescue, but I stopped reading after mange.

Reaction to young foxes falls into three camps. The first is the urban reaction, filtered through Disney, which is to feed the thing and hope that it takes up residence as an amusing but wily pet, possibly bringing along some woodland friends.

The suburban reaction is to remember the last time a fox got in among the bin bags, recall the chicken carcasses spread down the road, and chase the bugger off with a shovel.

The country reaction is to get the local hunt on the ‘phone with one hand while trying to load and cock a shotgun with the other, all the while trying not to vaporise the chicken coup, weathervane or cycling parson in the ensuing blast and chaos.

By the time I had worked out what to do the fellow had scampered off. No doubt he heard one of my neighbours opening a can of dog food and went off to try his luck.