The Year of the Fox

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Low: 55°F
Conditions: Partly cloudy with a chance of isolated showers later today.

According to Chinese astrology, 2008 is the year of the rat. The United Nations proclaimed 2008 the year of the potato. Both of those designations are all fine and good, but around here, we’ve decried 2008 to be the year of the fox.

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It started in late spring when, each night right around midnight, we’d be awakened by ghoulish shrieking in the woods outside our house. Initially, I thought the banshee chorus was coming from a fisher cat (Martes pennanti) or porcupine (Erethizon dorsatum). Greg speculated it was bobcats (Lynx rufus). A resurgence of distinctive scat soon proved us both wrong: our woods had become make-out mountain for a pair of amorous red foxes (Vulpes vulpes). We’ve been waiting for the kits ever since.

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In the meantime, we've come to love the hoarse bark of these wild canines. If you're not familiar with the sound, you can listen to a variety of calls here.

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Throughout the summer, we've heard warning cries, mating cries, fighting cries, and just plain crying cries. But we still haven't seen the new family. That is, until recently.

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Last week, Greg and the caninaturalist were out walking early in the morning. They heard a fox barking as it went racing by—just beyond their reach (unfortunately, neither thought to bring the camera). Following close behind was not only a large bobcat, but also another fox chasing the cat. The latter managed to tree the former, then screeched out at its mate, who had crossed the road and was lurking in our ash grove. The all-clear sign was enough to also bring out one of the season’s kits, who rendezoused with mom and dad before retreating into the pine grove.

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Today, Ari and I went for our early morning stroll through the neighborhood pasture. There, just over the rise was not one, not two, but four fox kits engaged in a battle royale cagematch. They pounced and boxed and leapt and nipped and didn’t mind at all that a blue-eyed dog and singularly amazed human stood by and watched.

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When one of them finally did notice us, he alerted the others. They all turned their attention towards us and, instead of scampering away, crouched low enough to scuttle closer for a better look. Ari stood on her hind legs and chortled her best greeting; much to our delight, the boldest of the litter returned it, albeit with some trepidation. Here was a wolfy-looking creature who seemed a whole lot like them (not to mention someone who would probably be great fun to play with), but why on earth was this wild looking dog standing next to a HUMAN? They were understandably stumped.
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The four kits studied us for a long time before finally deciding that Ari must have very bad judgment to keep such company as I. Or perhaps their parents had warned them about canines who have fallen in with the wrong crowd. The most moral of the group issued the call of the cavalry, and off they went—too reluctant for inter-species play.

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Not so further to our west at the Sugarloaf Golf Course. There, golfers have been plagued throughout the season by a particular clever fox who has taken to stealing balls on the fairway—often right out from under the noses of human players. That’s our kind of mulligan--especially this season, which we've dubbed the Summer of Fox.