The Fox
Mom’s Terrible Mistake

I only saw my mom Lisbeth cry twice. Once, the last time, was when I confessed that, yet again, I had stolen some money, and this time from her best friend’s husband. This overflowed some cup or other for her. But this is not that story. This is about the first time I saw her cry.

When she cried over a fox.

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Late one summer day, driving our blue and white Volvo Duett station wagon, Lisbeth arrived with a fox pup in the back.

We knew that she had gone into town to pick him up, so when she finally (time crawls when your expectations are at a fever pitch) arrived back home my sister and I rushed out the door to greet them, and to get a look at our latest family addition (we had recently added an Iceland pony to our tribe, so it kept growing).

And there he was, in the back of the car, in a wire cage, small as anything and shy as anything. And, he must have been, I see in retrospect, petrified as anything.

Looking back, I’m not even sure it was legal to own a fox pet at the time (I’m sure it isn’t now). I believe my dad, who in no way endorsed this acquisition, not in the least, had mumbled something to that effect. But Mom, once her mind was set on something, would not be swayed, not by circumstance, not by Dad, not by Law (apparently).

The little thing wore a muzzle to prevent him from biting, and even though cute and all, his head and eyes darted sort of desperately in a continuous “What is going on and where am I and where is Mother?” frenzy.

Poor thing.

Mom had built a small wooden house for him—more like a box cage—which, I think now, was way too small for him, and too dark to boot. It just wasn’t a nice place for any animal to live in—well, perhaps a turtle would not have minded.

Moving the fox cub from the car to his house did not go smoothly, but Mom managed eventually and got him settled in his new, motherless home.

Well, I’m not sure settled is the right word, for the little guy never really did make himself at home. Foxes are not made for cages. They are made for forest and field. Still, Mom kept the little thing (whom she had named “The Fox” by way of a joke; Räven, in Swedish).

Fast forward a week or two, and our family is invited to a barbeque by a nearby lake, so we all pile into the Volvo, The Fox included (much to Dad’s chagrin). Mom’s got him a little leather harness now with a swivel-eye snap hook for the leash, which he’s not very comfortable in.

Again, poor guy.

Once we arrived, Mom brought The Fox out of the car, leashed him up, and after parading him around for the requisite ohs and ahs she then tied the leash to a nearby tree, good and tight.

The Fox, true to fox form, didn’t like any of this and wouldn’t sit down—just paced back and forth, still looking for his mom, my guess. Well, at least he was out in foresty nature for a while which must have been a welcome change from his wooden box cage.

Then food. And drinks (only for the grownups, of course). And then some dart throwing and other games. And then some swimming in the lake. And then the terrible discovery: The Fox has escaped.

He had either bit through the leash, or the leash had plain broken, for part of it was still attached to the tree while the other part of it was missing, gone with the runaway, harnessed fox.

Was he muzzled, someone asked.

No, said Mom. No, he wasn’t.

Good, said that someone.

Mom is beside herself. Crying now. A search party was organized (not very well, though, since the men were softly drunk by now and the women, well, they did what they could, I guess—they mainly tried to console Mom).

An hour later, no sign of The Fox. Better let it go, someone said. He’s gone. We’re not going to find him.

Mom is still crying. Asking that they look for him some more, but no one’s game. He’s gone. Back to booze and darts.

Things eventually wound down and Mom, as the designated driver, brought us all back home. She’s still crying on and off, wiping her eyes, driving carefully, eyes on the road and not on us or Dad—who, not very apt in the best of times at consoling Mom, didn’t even try, wearing his I-told-you-so face.

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It was not until later that I realized why Mom had been so terribly upset, and why someone had asked about the muzzle. Muzzled, The Fox would not be able to eat, of course. He would starve to death. I could see that.

But what then also grew terribly clear to me was that harnessed, the harness would kill him, and slowly. The Fox would grow to twice or three times his escaped size, the harness would not. Our escapee would die a slow and very painful death, crushed by the harness. And that is the gruesome fox fate that Mom had to come to terms with.

That was her terrible mistake.

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