Let Them Blame the Fox H.G Nolan
We are at the edge of the woods. My brother is pacing the lip of the embankment where the gravelled fire road meets the forest floor. We wait, listening. It was unlike her to stray far—at least, not when she was with him. I hadn’t told him she’d run off when I took her out the other day. We’d gone too far, and, trying to get home, I decided to cut back through Mr Greene’s field. She must have picked up a scent because she was gone in an instant. I called her name over and over until, finally, she came bounding towards me with something clenched in her jaw. I was so overjoyed to see her that I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around her neck before realising she was covered in blood and chicken shit. She dropped the bird—a limp pile of feathers—at my feet and sat back proudly. I was then covered in the mess. I took her home, lifted her into the bath, and scrubbed her for ages. It felt endless, watching the blackened blood flowing from her white coat. Then, I peeled off my dirty clothes and hopped into the tub and let the water run over me until I felt cleansed. Once the house was quiet that night, I let her into my bed. She rolled on her back, wiggled her slim body, and pawed the air. I wondered how such a docile creature could do such a violent thing. Stepping a foot into the forest, my brother calls her name, ‘Blondie.’ And I call her too, ‘Blondie, Blondie,’ but the forest seems to swallow our voices. So, we stand there, waiting and listening. ‘Should we walk back to the car?’ I ask him. ‘No, she’ll keep going up the hill.’ So, we start back up the fire road, taking turns calling her name. The day after Blondie killed the chickens, Mr Greene came by the house to tell my brother’s wife that a fox must’ve gotten into the coop. 30