The sun rested on the bright auburn hair of a fox, grooming him with peace and serenity. He was curled in a ball, snuggled in the bosom of late afternoon. I’d never seen tranquillity quite like this. Birds sang and the quiet wind blew, and there he slept, a tired fox.
I had to get a picture.
There was a fox sleeping in my garden!
I snapped one through my murky kitchen window, but I had to get a closer shot.
With my baby playing happily in the lounge, I turned the key in our back door, slow, steady. I slipped my sandals on. Leaning gently on the handle, I silently opened the door and crept outside.
I’d barely got one foot on the patio when through the gap in my baby’s green slide, eyes as sharp as a thorn and as vulnerable as a rose stared right through me.
His ears pointed fiercely.
I was petrified, for myself, for him.
Not one second longer, he shot as quickly as a bullet from a hunter’s gun down the garden, through the prickly bush, scraping back and forth, back and forth, and as I stood and watched in pure fascination, he clambered up the fence and bolted right over it, never to be seen again.
And all I’ve got to remember him by is a lousy picture through my murky kitchen window.