Seems foxes are really settling into the suburban lifestyle; even bringing into the well tempered gardens of Surrey the kind of behaviour that normally is reserved for behind the white patterned net curtains.
Let me explain, just before Christmas I was in England, staying at my sister’s house in Surrey, I was very intrigued when one morning I opened the curtains and noticed a black object sat in the middle of her, otherwise blemish free, lawn. The object looked about eight inches long and a couple of inches across; it was a glossy wet from the morning dew.
Over breakfast I mentioned the object to my bother-in-law.
“It’s a fox.” he said.
I peered out of the French windows at the black thing; prominent and obvious on the lawn.
“No it’s not,” I said, “it looks like a kid’s training shoe.”
“I know it’s a shoe,” said my brother-in-law, rolling his eyes at my sister as she entered the room and sat down, “The shoe was put there by the fox.”
“What, a real fox?” I asked “Like Basil Brush or Foxy Loxy from Chicken Little?”
My brother-in-law looked momentarily confused. He leaned a little closer into me.
“You do know Basil Brush isn’t real don’t you?” He paused. He seemed to be waiting to see if this was a significant revelation. You know, like the Santa thing. Eventually he continued
“But yes a real fox.”
He went on to explain that on a pretty regular basis a fox, who lives somewhere at the end of the garden, leaves shoes on the lawn, sometimes even digging holes to try and bury the stolen footwear.
“… we are not only the house ‘round here with the problem either.” He finished.
I sipped my tea, my head full of images of foxes moving through the suburban London night like Ninjas stealing shoes from beneath the noses of their owners.
“What happens to the shoes?” I asked.
“We throw them away” He said.
“Why doesn’t the neighborhood get together every few months and have a kinda reverse jumble sale. A chance to repatriate the shoes?” I asked.
“The foxes seem to like the shoes a lot, they lick and chew them like maniacs; I don’t think the owners want them back after that.”
Suddenly the ninja fox view disappeared and was replaced with an image of gangs of foxes roaming the deserted Surrey streets looking for a shoe fix.
“Come on pal I need something! Just a tongue, a lace! Can’t you see I’m in cold Nike!”
Do you think there are fox rehab clinics? Maybe they would be put on insoles which are like shoes but not as strong. Maybe there is a reality show in there? “The real cubs of KT17”
But then a different thought occurred to me, what if it’s not an addiction? What if it is a fetish? Perhaps other foxes looked on those with the shoe fetish as being weird, outcasts. Maybe there were Fox dens where a dog could meet a Vixen in a safe environment surrounded by the beautiful heels of Surrey. An underground foxclub scene …..
I was startled from my musing on Vulpes.vulpes retifism by a loud chattering and I watched bemused as a thirty strong flock of Green Parrots rose from the trees at the end of the garden. Parrots! In Surrey? But that is next week’s blog.
<Enter stunningly witty and clever tagline here>
Bazza
Let me explain, just before Christmas I was in England, staying at my sister’s house in Surrey, I was very intrigued when one morning I opened the curtains and noticed a black object sat in the middle of her, otherwise blemish free, lawn. The object looked about eight inches long and a couple of inches across; it was a glossy wet from the morning dew.
Over breakfast I mentioned the object to my bother-in-law.
“It’s a fox.” he said.
I peered out of the French windows at the black thing; prominent and obvious on the lawn.
“No it’s not,” I said, “it looks like a kid’s training shoe.”
“I know it’s a shoe,” said my brother-in-law, rolling his eyes at my sister as she entered the room and sat down, “The shoe was put there by the fox.”
“What, a real fox?” I asked “Like Basil Brush or Foxy Loxy from Chicken Little?”
My brother-in-law looked momentarily confused. He leaned a little closer into me.
“You do know Basil Brush isn’t real don’t you?” He paused. He seemed to be waiting to see if this was a significant revelation. You know, like the Santa thing. Eventually he continued
“But yes a real fox.”
He went on to explain that on a pretty regular basis a fox, who lives somewhere at the end of the garden, leaves shoes on the lawn, sometimes even digging holes to try and bury the stolen footwear.
“… we are not only the house ‘round here with the problem either.” He finished.
I sipped my tea, my head full of images of foxes moving through the suburban London night like Ninjas stealing shoes from beneath the noses of their owners.“What happens to the shoes?” I asked.
“We throw them away” He said.
“Why doesn’t the neighborhood get together every few months and have a kinda reverse jumble sale. A chance to repatriate the shoes?” I asked.
“The foxes seem to like the shoes a lot, they lick and chew them like maniacs; I don’t think the owners want them back after that.”
Suddenly the ninja fox view disappeared and was replaced with an image of gangs of foxes roaming the deserted Surrey streets looking for a shoe fix.
“Come on pal I need something! Just a tongue, a lace! Can’t you see I’m in cold Nike!”
Do you think there are fox rehab clinics? Maybe they would be put on insoles which are like shoes but not as strong. Maybe there is a reality show in there? “The real cubs of KT17”
But then a different thought occurred to me, what if it’s not an addiction? What if it is a fetish? Perhaps other foxes looked on those with the shoe fetish as being weird, outcasts. Maybe there were Fox dens where a dog could meet a Vixen in a safe environment surrounded by the beautiful heels of Surrey. An underground foxclub scene …..
I was startled from my musing on Vulpes.vulpes retifism by a loud chattering and I watched bemused as a thirty strong flock of Green Parrots rose from the trees at the end of the garden. Parrots! In Surrey? But that is next week’s blog.
<Enter stunningly witty and clever tagline here>
Bazza
For a more sensible explanation of urban and suburban foxes see:
And prrof that foxes even steal the shoes of the nobility
