My Florida
By Melody Murphy [melody@ocalasgoodlife.com]
Falling For Foxes (Fox Fables, Vol. 1)
F
all is for foxes. It’s the time of year when newly grown foxes leave their families and set out on their own, often leading to their first encounters with humans. And I’ve had more than my fair share. I think a fox must be one of my spirit animals. When I was a child in south Florida, a three-legged grey fox lived at the end of our street. I remember seeing him among the tall grass in a ditch, lit up by our headlights in the dark. We would turn the corner and glimpse him, exclaiming, “There’s the fox!” He would briefly accept his accolades in the spotlight before dashing into the pines. Early one magnolia-scented morning nine years ago, a grey fox was standing calmly at the front doors of the local theater as if waiting to greet me when I walked up to begin my workday. He let me speak to him for a few moments before he returned to the woods. One summer sunrise five years ago, I looked out the window to see two young foxes frolicking in the front yard. They wrestled, jumped over each other, chased each other around bushes, and dug in the dirt. It was like watching puppies play. Finally they came up on the front porch to rest, watching with great interest as dragonflies darted around them. Hiding behind the glass, I scarcely dared to breathe, but I do think they saw me and were showing off a little. Two summers later, near a ghost town by the Suwannee River, a friend and I went out to seek shooting stars. It was the peak of the Perseids, and we had also lucked out with an incredible display of fireflies in the forest, like the stars had fallen among the trees. We found a clearing in the woods, a perfect circle amid the pines, and lay down on our blankets to watch the meteor shower. Suddenly, from very close by came a tiny howl, followed
One afternoon last spring, I saw a red fox trotting down the sidewalk as purposefully as a census-taker.
14
OCALA’S GOOD LIFE retirement redefined
by barks and yips. My friend, a forest ranger, said it was a young fox, who kept us company the rest of the night. I like to think he had crept close to watch the stars fall with us, howling every so often in appreciation of an especially good meteor. It was a magical night. One afternoon last spring, I saw a red fox trotting down the sidewalk as purposefully as a census-taker. I pulled over and got out to follow him at a respectful distance, neither the first nor the last time I would take a walk with a fox. He let me spend 10 minutes with him, stopping twice to sit and regard me calmly. He dug a bug out of some pine needles and ate it with gusto, leisurely scratched behind his ears with his hind foot, crossed the street to forage for fallen fruit beneath an orange tree, then said goodbye with a friendly nod and bounded into the woods. I often walk in the fox-haunted cemetery behind my house. I’ve seen them, both red and grey, in all seasons. Last fall, I saw a grey fox romp across a grassy lawn in the moonlight. The biggest red fox I’ve ever seen emerged from behind a monument in the shadowy dusk, startling us both. A shy grey fox played hide-and-seek with me around a corner in the dim violet twilight. They know me by now. Next time I’ll tell you three tales of holiday-season fox encounters. In the first, I took a sunset stroll with a fox the night before Thanksgiving. In the second, I sang Christmas gospel to a fox beneath a full moon. And in the third, I took a walk on a golden afternoon with a graveyard fox, who led me through a maze like something out of a fairytale. We need a little magic to end the year, so come back for the final fox fables.
