A painting of a Fox.
A painting of a Fox. Credit: Original Acrylic by Wynne Parkin, artist. Credit: Original Acrylic by Wynne Parkin, artist.

We are waiting on a fox.

The fox that prowls at night. 

We know this, because when he comes calling between dusk and dawn he leaves signs of his visit. With his keen eyesight and an even sharper nose, the fox stealthily hunts in shadow. And then, as the dark begins to fade, he always disappears back into the woods.  

So we are out here on this black, cold night watching the chicken coop … and waiting.

Sully is patiently sitting with me, loyal, as is his nature. He is a Japanese mastiff; a Tosa. Quiet, intelligent and extremely powerful, Sully is my stoic companion. I reach over and absently stroke his head and he turns to look at me. With gentle affection, I realize that he is the friend I’ve always needed but rarely deserved. And so together we wait beyond the gloaming, silent in the frost.

Tonight there is only the fingernail paring of a moon, with but a few stars dotting that ebon sky.  It’s a good time for the fox to come, cloaked in darkness. I don’t believe we’ll have to stay out here much longer. 

Winter was late this year, January had arrived with only a skiff of snow. This unexpected warmer weather was welcome and yet now as we near the end of the month, it is finally disappearing. During the day, deer had appreciated the lack of snow as they came up through the trees to graze in our backyard. Over coffee in the morning, I would watch them poke about in the grass, finding the last of the fallen apples, a welcome treat compared to the woody browse they’ll subsist on once the snows come. Pickings become scarce as winter hits in full force and they know it. 

 It wasn’t long ago that the ground squirrels and chipmunks were darting about, their winter slumber temporarily postponed. Even with a slight frost, we could still detect the faint odour of skunk on our walks, though by now they’ve all gone off to hibernate. However, the upper level predators; fox, coyote, owl, eagle and bobcat, hunt all winter out here. And the longer their prey stays active, the better fed they’ll be. February and March can be lean months, with hearty meals few and far between, so a nice padding of fat will help them survive until spring.

There was a half eaten  squirrel in the brush out by the road the other day and recently, we have seen piles of fox scat full of feathers and/or small bones decorating the trails. With mixed emotions, we suspect that a fox may have come to stay. 

Andrea and I moved to New Brunswick almost two years ago, wanting to spend our retirement years far from the urban sprawl. We purchased our house and a few deeply wooded acres to begin following the dream of having one last purposeful adventure. Andrea has the room for her gardens now, and she allows her creativity to explode in form and function. Through the construction of beautiful displays resplendent with flowers, grasses and vegetables, she openly expresses herself. I believe she builds these living dioramas, more by instinct than design, and they blend in effortlessly with the natural beauty, offering enhancement, as well as purpose.  

We have chosen to give up the convenience of city life and all it offers, for the quiet and solitude of the country. We’re not quite living like homesteaders, but we are living much closer to nature than we have ever been before. There are no shopping malls or entertainment venues in our community. No gas stations, no Starbucks, no stores … not even a 7-eleven. However, there are clear skies, clean air and the living portraits of rolling hills, fully dressed in ever-changing floral landscapes. We have all the comforts which we need, sheltered by the woods and are content. To paraphrase Sinead O’Connor, we do not want what we haven’t got.

Our chicken coop is surrounded by a protective chain link fence, to provide safety, comfort and freedom for our three girls. They are well fed, curious and content, gifting us a few eggs each day in exchange. These aren’t meat birds and when their laying days are over; they’ll live out their retirement in ease, lovingly cared for, and finally, be buried out by the old grandfather tree. 

On the eastern edge of our back yard stand the hives, home to thriving colonies of docile Italian honeybees. They are happy little pollinators, who ensure the plants around us flourish. The hives get to keep the lion’s share of their honey, because even though the government demands that they be registered as livestock, they are not kept for profit. We harvest only a small amount of what they produce, which is then shared with family and friends. The rest is left to the bees, as nature intended.

We are trying to leave as small a negative footprint as we possibly can. It’s a footprint which is diminishing as our knowledge and understanding grows and our assimilation into this new chapter of life happens. We recycle, we compost, we preserve our own home grown vegetables and we heat our house with a woodstove. Baby steps, but we are building a life within the land and not simply on top of it. 

In the fall, when we harvest trees for firewood, we do so strategically. Using forest management as our guide; the standing dead, diseased and danger trees go first. Next, we look to the areas that are overcrowded, where trees are choking each other out, or are crowding the sunlight causing all to suffer. These are spots where cutting down one or two trees enhances the chances for a half-dozen others. Our goal is that, if we do this right, the forest will thrive. It will grow properly; nurturing the soil, housing the wildlife and yet, still provide us with warmth every winter. 

We are learning. 

One of the hardest lessons to accept so far is that as beautiful as it is, nature can be cruel. The natural world is wild and wondrous, yet it also maintains a dangerous reality. A reality which is host to the constant struggle between life and death, predator and prey.  Like a dance of fang and claw, this struggle plays out around us on a multitude of levels, often hidden within the shadow of the hardwood and pine.  

We are reminded often that we are walking a precarious tightrope within an environment built on balance. A yin and yang, so to speak, which often forces us to make hard choices. I do not want to force my will on the ecosystem and make it bend to my judgement, but the compromise which will allow me to exist comfortably within it must be reached.

We want to live and to learn in symmetry with our surroundings, and not in conflict. 

Following decades as a union negotiator, I now find myself bargaining with mother nature and her kin, trying to find my way through a myriad of new experiences and drawing on a skill-set I never knew I had. Even here, life is a series of ‘give and take’ scenarios, measured by the scale of choices, both good and bad.

Which brings me to my dilemma with the fox. 

The Fox appears …

I first saw this particular fox in late December, at early dusk. I was about a kilometre from our house when I caught sight of him sauntering through a field. The fading sun over Belyeas Cove shone off his golden red fur and he held head high as he travelled. I stopped to get a better look. He was close, maybe 10 meters away and yet he showed no fear. He stopped as well and eyed me curiously. We locked eyes for a few seconds and then he quickly turned, continuing on his journey. 

A few weeks went by and then, in early January, I again caught a glimpse of him. This time it was at twilight. He was warily moving about in the far end of our yard behind the beehives, in a spot we call ‘Bugtown’. Only visible for a moment, he weaved around the brush, perhaps stalking a mouse, before disappearing behind the thick trees and into their dark shadows.  

A few days later, while looking out our front window one morning; Mr. Fox once again came strolling by. The dogs were in the house, and so he seemed at ease as wandered east from MacDonald’s Point. He was fully in view for a dozen meters before darting off and vanishing into the woodlot across the road and once again, I was struck by his nonchalant and confident manner. He didn’t appear skittish but was definitely alert, not unlike a prince in his own domain. And then, when he decided to head off into the shelter of the trees, he showed a speed and agility I have rarely seen.

When it snowed a few days later, Sully and I decided to earnestly look for his tracks on our trail walks. As pleased as I was to have seen the fox on a number of occasions, I recognized that he was a potential threat and one we would probably have to deal with. As beautiful and fascinating as he is, he can’t be allowed to kill the chickens. 

Now, after weeks of watching for him and studying his habits, the day we feared has come. In freshly fallen snow, we found his tracks out behind the chicken coop.

And so, here we are, waiting for him tonight. 

I believe he’s a male or as commonly known, a “dog fox.” Being about a metre in length, from snout to tip of tail and looking to weigh around six kilograms, he’s bigger than a female or “vixen.”  Though foxes are not really a danger to humans, we can’t forget that they are predators. Being fairly isolated, surrounded by acre upon acres of forest which breeds only wild animals, our chickens may very well be a temptation he can’t resist. 

I have been advised that the easiest thing to do would be to shoot him. I think that many people might take that route, but not me. As I mentioned earlier, nature can be cruel and sometimes hard choices must be made. I know this and accept it, but call me a dreamer, I want there to be another way this time. Though I am prepared to do everything necessary to ensure that the chickens are safe, I’m going to try my best to get there without using a gun.

The fox is not my enemy. He’s only doing what he is meant to do. In many cultures, foxes are considered a good omen and a sign of prosperity. They are characterized in stories as creatures of wisdom and craft. They are seen as tricksters and philosophers, warriors and waifs. In many First Nations lore, foxes are shape-changers  …  often benevolent and helpful, but vengeful when crossed. In Japan, they are Kami, one of the most important Shinto gods. In Finland, it’s said that when the fox scurries over the snowy hills, it brings on the aurora borealis, better known there as ‘Foxfire’. 

However, the New Brunswick government, has determined that the red fox is a;

‘Nuisance animal…one that can cause damage to private property (including livestock), or injury to owners of private land.’ 

Because they have been designated as a ‘nuisance’, a landowner can hunt or trap a fox to prevent any damage. However, just because you are allowed by law to kill an animal, does not mean that you should. Wild as the fox may be, his removal from our property will only be as a last resort. We have come to live in his home, not the other way around and we’d much rather share the acreage, than hoard it.

We tend to see the fox more as a neighbour, living within their forest, as they have for thousands of years. His presence is certainly an accurate indicator of balance and health in relation to the local environment. Here’s why: Foxes go where there is food and they move on when there is not. They feed on the mice, voles, birds and other small animals which are only in abundance when your gardens are thriving, when the soil is rich and when clean water is plentiful. If there are foxes, then you can be sure the land is healthy.  

So Sully and I are sitting here, immobile and silent, on this dark February night. I have my rifle resting across my knees, hoping that I will not have to use it. Everything is cloaked in shadows with only the faint glow of the brood lamp breaching the blackness. However there is a motion sensor light mounted on the outside wall of the enclosure, patiently waiting to be awakened by any movement near the chickens. 

Fox are nocturnal hunters. Their suspicious nature, coupled with uncanny instincts, make them extremely difficult to catch in a trap. We have a live box style trap here which we’ve used to help relocate a raccoon and a few skunks, but the fox is far too smart to go into it. They most often hunt alone, except in times of famine, and though a fox will roam for miles, they often come back to their home territory. If this fox has set up our place as his home, he will be tolerated, even welcomed. Unless he tries to harm the chickens. Our job is to let him know that the coop is off limits and hopefully, as smart as he seems to be, he’ll learn. So we wait.

The woods which surround us are never truly silent. They are a cacophony of sounds, a symphonic ode to life in the wild. Trees crack like gunshots in the cold. Branches break under the weight of snow. Owls call and ravens chatter, while squirrels scold and the coyotes yip. Each sound, every scent, all that we can see … is teaching us more and more that we need to know. Yet the forest is silent tonight, as if it is holding its breath.

A chill has begun to set in. Sully seems fine, but I can feel it in my bones. It seems that the fox may not be coming tonight. Perhaps he’s moved on. I am about to tell the big fella that it’s time to time to go in, when suddenly the light at the coop snaps on. It surprises us, especially since there was no sound preceding it. From within the coop, of course the chickens erupt from their roost, loudly exclaiming their fright. Caught in the glare, the fox leaps to the air, twisting at the apex and darts back into the safety of the trees. Sully’s head is up, and a tremendous bark escapes him. His eyes are trained in the direction the fox went, but he stays by my side. He tenses, loudly growling, wanting to bound the few dozen meters into the brush … and yet he stays, waiting for my reaction. I get up with my rifle and say softly,

‘C’mon, let’s go take a look. But stay with me.’

We jog through the snow, to the southeast side of the coop. Sure enough, the fox tracks are within a meter of the chain link enclosure. They approach in short furtive steps  … stop … and then retreat in leaping bounds. Sully buries his big snout in the tracks and then backs up and urinates all over them. When done, he is anxious to follow beyond the treeline but I tell him to stay. He contents himself with marking the tracks once more and then ambles back to me. I’m proud of this dog, he seems to understand, as do I, that the threat is gone for now. Perhaps for good. 

Before we head to the warmth of the house, I take one last look into the woods. Perhaps 20 meters away, a small set of eyes reflect the light, peering back from the gloom. They are there for an instant, and then they’re gone, as we hear their owner scurry off deeper into the brush. The chickens have quieted down, huddled together on their perch and as I make my way back to the house, Sully is joyously bounding around through the snow, ecstatic to have been involved in this adventure.

Over a week has passed and there has been no sign of the fox around the coop. We still check every day but … nothing. It appears an agreement has been reached. The fox now seems to know that it’s as dangerous for him to bother the chickens, as it was for the chickens, and so he’s opted for safer prey. I’m sure he didn’t expect the sudden bright lights or the two huge creatures that accompanied them and so I think he was more than happy to surrender the possibility of a meal. 

We still see the odd track of his on our walks and there is occasional scat down near bugtown, but he doesn’t venture near the chickens. However, the other night while sitting out on the deck, we heard the unmistakable territorial whining scream of a fox. It might’ve been a warning to the coyotes that have been down by the lake lately. Or maybe it was the call for a mate, as it’s that time of the year. However, it might’ve also been for us. It wasn’t very distant, so perhaps he was just letting us know that he’s aware of where we are and that he will not come closer. 

Today, I sip my morning coffee, lost in contemplative thought. I wanted to reach a truce with a woodland creature, and that’s something that even a year ago would have seemed an impossible task … and yet here we are. I think we might have succeeded. Boundaries have been set, without bloodshed or loss. I’m content in knowing that balance has been restored.

 And so for now, all is right within our small and personal world.