It’s always a good day when we spot one of our favorite "yard pets" enjoying himself on a lazy fall afternoon.
This is only the second time in 11 years that I’ve been able to snap pics of Fuzzy the Fox. He’s very camera shy and mostly nocturnal, but I guess he just couldn’t resist sunning himself, taking a brief nap, and savoring the change of seasons. I wish you could have seen the way he closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sky with an expression of sheer pleasure.
How often do we take the time to be still and feel ourselves in the world?
For as long as we’ve lived here, we’ve had the privilege of observing fox families. Fuzzy is one of many descendants of The Great Reynaldo, the first fox we became acquainted with — a dashing fellow with thick red fur and black stockings, who carried himself with a decided air of aristocracy and discerning tastes. These days, the others speak of Reynaldo in hushed tones, still in awe of his incomparable flair, rugged good looks, and finely honed hunting skills.
But today we have Fuzzy (who is likely female, but we refer to all the animals as "he"), who thinks he’s a dog. Len has trained him to come for his supper (leftovers and puppy biscuits), by opening and closing our kitchen door (loud slam), and calling his name. Fuzzy must have read the book about the "fox in the hen house," because he’s mad about chicken (dem bones, dem bones, dem fowl bones). We love that he’s not a picky eater — it’s fun watching him slurp up long spaghetti noodles, puzzle over sushi, nibble up blueberries, and gather up bits of bread to bring back to his kits.
Fuzzy photo of Fuzzy.
We often wonder what Fuzzy thinks of us, besides free food. Strange people living in a big box, watching the leaves turn.
*This post is brought to you by Foxes, Forests, and Feeling.
♥ More F is for Fall 2010 posts here.
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