Foxy Move Written By Laura V.

Oh Dear! Here he comes again, ready to pounce at the slightest hint of betrayal. For the past two months his increasingly choleric attitude has garnered him several new enemies. This game of cat and mouse would be bad enough is he was a cat. But, he’s a fax, with three years of battle scars to his credit. A worthy adversary who gulps down a mouse in one slurp, spitting the bones out in 1.5 minutes flat.

I’m a fox, freshly groomed, learning to creep slow, keep low, following instinct when encountering the wafting acrid aroma of a fresh kill. Sometimes keeping my nose too low to the ground, bumping into bullied who are professionals in the art of not sharing. Can’t be too careful when you don’t know the other diners at the table.

“Good morning, Meribelle. You look good enough to eat.”

“Grover, you cad!” I swoon backwards, putting three feet of drenched decaying leaves between us. “Hope you were successful in your hunting expedition down south.”

“Had to make do with a couple of chicks. What with one eye gone, and the other blinded by a sudden burst of solar energy, the rest of my breakfast scampered away.”

I began to edge away daintily, closer and closer to the river bank, securing each foothold with the pads of my paws, each loose rock and empty burrow of my territory memorized during weeks of extensive exploration. … I needed to get Grover away from tonight’s dinner. What could I say to convince him to leave? … “Yesterday I heard two partridges squawking about a mile east of here. You might want to check out the squabble. There was another voice, the most eldritch nasal quality I ever heard. Remember last week when you found that giant spider skewered on a stick beside the slough? …Maybe there’s another one, or something better…?”

“I see something better in front of me. No need to go messing with arachnid snacks when I’ve got lunch right in front of me.”

“Is that tub of lard you call a stomach too heavy to drag through the forest?”

With an unearthly wailing Grover threw himself at my haunches, scalpel-like claws missing by inches. He didn’t realize the rocky river bed had dried out, and I’m guessing his combined speed and trajectory falling 30 feet would crush the skull of even somebody as hard-headed as that buffoon.

Not only am I aware of all the empty burrows, but also those containing a sweet treat, something white and fluffy. Look at the wiggle, thinking she made it home sweet home. I knew there would be a delicious ending to this tail.