For the first week after the arrival of Anna’s fox cub we frequently turned to our friend-and-neighbour Terry, for help and advice. She would come and squat calmly under an apple tree with the wriggly cub wrapped in an old towel, held firmly in her arms, while we fed him. He was a messy eater in the early stages due mainly to our inexperience. In fact our mealtime procession down the garden consisted of Terry in an outsize striped apron followed by me with cup of food and an old towel and Anna, with warm waiter and cotton wool for mopping up operations.
As Anna squeezed out the cotton wool and rubbed it under his chin he would close his eyes and lean towards her chuckling, obviously remembering other washings from his mother’s tongue. Because of these throaty, laughing sounds he made, she decided to call him Chuckles.
When she took his drinking water to the shed he would follow so closely to heel that sometimes she would search wildly round for him, not realizing his nose was literally pressed to the back of her white sock.
In less than a week he was lapping strongly from a saucer, cleaning his paws like a cat and tiptoeing delicately to a corner of the lawn to defecate.
‘We have to put ourselves in the fox’s place,’ said Terry, when the subject of a bed came up. ‘He’d be used to a deep, dark hole and to being nuzzled and kept warm by his brothers and sisters.’
For the first few days we had made do with a small cardboard box containing a handful of straw, a toy one-eared rabbit for company and my husband’s pullover draped over the top. It was knitted from rough, oiled wool and Chuckles soon learned to roll himself right up in it. We hoped that to some extent it compensated for the lack of his mother.
During one fine weekend my husband cleared out the old shed in which Chuckles’ bed was housed. It had an earth floor and was quite watertight but we thought he might like a big wooden box to sleep in, placed towards the back of the shed, with the bale of straw partially covering the entrance.
Alas, the box was spurned. Instead Chuckles tunnelled a labyrinth of holes and made himself a home underneath it. He had literally gone to earth.
After about a month with us we noticed that the sides of his snout were becoming pink and bald. Was it because of his burrowing, we wondered? Up to now he was grey-brown in colour and fluffy in texture, with a white tip to his tail. Our soil is chalky and is exactly the same grey-brown colour. We thought how cleverly nature had arranged for baby foxes’ protection in this way and we still wonder if cubs in other areas, where the soil is different, are themselves redder or browner than ours was.
Gradually from mid-May onwards, a wonderful transition took place. First the bald patches grew soft, white fur. Then the grey eyes became golden and characteristically slanty. Day by day, a very little at a time, the coat turned faintly reddish brown and the tail grew more bushy until at last he was a true red fox with sleek black legs and ear tips.
We took him to the vet for inoculation where he caused a minor sensation in the waiting room, although he sat aloof in my husband’s arms until our name was called. The vet told us to give him plenty of roughage (whole mice, chicken heads, etc) and not to chastise him in any way as foxes are basically always wild animals and could turn fierce if frightened.
‘If he makes any angry huffing noise in his throat, hold the scruff of his neck and point his head downwards,’ said the vet. ‘This is the submissive position in the pack and he will instinctively become passive.’ We hoped it wouldn’t come to that but we had learned not to reach too close at mealtimes as he was quick to nip probing fingers. This was natural enough – even the tamest of domestic animals should be left to eat their meals undisturbed.
‘I shouldn’t have him in the home,’ added the vet. This was a relief to me because Chuckles liked to make himself a temporary home on the shelf under our coffee table, shredding several magazines in the process.
We also learned that foxes need lots of playtime so we took it in turns to leap about on the lawn. Anna loved this and so did Chuckles. He would hide behind the lupins and then dash between her legs when she looked away. On fine days I would take a deckchair down by the shed and try to read while he scurried busily about, butting me, rolling down the compost heap or playing hide and seek among the rhubarb.
Gradually, as the summer progressed, he became bigger and more adventurous. My husband spent a small fortune on chicken wire and timber for a run but Chuckles viewed it with contempt, preferring to lurk in a neighbour’s thick hedge when he didn’t feel like company. He was growing up now and no doubt catching the scent of other foxes on the nearby hill.
In the early autumn we went away for a holiday, leaving Terry and her family in charge of Chuckles’ meals and playtimes.
When we returned two weeks later, a sad little note informed us that Chuckles had disappeared soon after we left.
‘Probably thinks that we are his pack and we’ve deserted him,’ said my husband. Anna was heartbroken. Night after night she took tempting tit-bits down to the shed and called and called.
Then, late one evening, my husband, standing at the open kitchen door, noticed two glittering eyes zig-zagging silently across the lawn. He stood quite still. Slowly a dog-like shape approached. It was Chuckles.
‘Come on old fellow,’ said my husband but Chuckles backed away from the house. Quietly David followed him outside and once out on the lawn Chuckles began to romp and to play hide and seek.
I was called and we decided it was such a special occasion that Anna must be awakened and told the good news.
Chuckles often came back at nightfall after that but only on his own terms. Gradually, as he reached maturity, the visits tailed off but I shall always carry a vivid picture of a delighted little girl, in pyjamas and dressing gown, prancing on the lawn in a shaft of light from the kitchen window, with a mischievous, beautiful fox dancing silently at her heels.