I wanted to start this post with a drawn-out expletive but my mother would object and since she stands in the doorway of my office with that look on her face, and I can't escape because she's blocking the only exit, once you've read this post, you'll say the drawn-out expletive yourself.
A week or so ago, I snapped these photos of the fox family living on our riverside lot across the road. Foxes are such beautiful creatures, and they live in families -- fox fathers are very devoted to their kits -- but my first thought was: Too close to the road! I understand the appeal of the river but really, it's not the best real estate for any animal. Every time they go hunting, the foxes have to cross that fast and busy road; add two playful kits to the mix? Dread.
And this morning, that dread found a place to rest. Alongside the light little body of one of the fox kits lying on the edge of the road.
If you've read my book, you know how I feel about "road kill" -- how it guts me, how it haunts me. The body of that pretty little kit was the size of my forearm. I bawled as I moved it off onto the shoulder. I cried, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," the way I always do when I have to walk by an animal killed by a vehicle.
After I'd moved the body, and its intestines, I noticed an organ -- its liver? -- tiny and red, on the asphalt.
All of us gutted.
And I don't think we'll have any foxes around by the time spring turns to summer because the adults raid our neighbours' property -- where there are roosters and rabbits and geese -- so I expect they'll be shot. We're wondering if one of the parents has already been shot.
This is the part of country living that breaks my heart. The havoc wrought by humans -- by our vehicles on the roads, by our machinery in the woods, by the garbage filling our ditches and rivers and oceans. Garbage, asphalt and concrete instead of trees, wild flowers and water. Who are the truly wild and uncontrollable creatures on this earth?
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