Fox Tails

It’s not easy being a fox.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s not easy to be any sort of animal (and you would be right), but believe me when I tell you that it is particularly hard to be a fox. 

Ever since that dapper English dandy made a name for himself by snacking on poor, innocent virgins, it has been hard for me and mine to get one up in this world. Sloppy work on his part is what it was. You never let your intended know where you live before the wedding night—never mind how special old Fox thought dear Mary was, it simply isn’t something a responsible fox does—unless, of course, he wants to get chopped to a thousand pieces by Mary’s friends and family.

The trick is not to draw attention to yourself--that's where most of us go wrong. We make these great romantic gestures, each more elaborate than the next, and it's easy to get carried away by our excitement and anticipation. And if we do that, and it's all boots and cudgels and sharp metal objects splicing you into a thousand pieces. It's not a pretty picture, and I don't envy old Fox one bit—though I have to say it's his own fault: a bloody trail to your front door doesn't exactly herald good tithing or a blissful marriage.

Of course, we can’t be held entirely responsible for our naughty ways: they’re bred into us. We foxes see a pretty girl and cannot help but to become enthralled by her, to be consumed by our need to have her, possess her (and I dare say eat her). Really, it’s their own faults for being so charming, so easy to smile and laugh, for having dimples and pert little breasts and lovely supple legs...

Luckily, we tods have learned from the mistakes of those like Mr. Fox; we have become more clever and cleaner in this modern world. We set our alarms to ward off our uninvited girlfriends. The changes that come with said modern world also do their part to make our lives a little safer. Since even the earliest years of my kithood—oh, somewhere around the turn of last century, I expect—the modern world has slowly begun to push away the notion of fairies and goblins and foxes who talk, and I dare say that this is a marvelous thing, for the less that people remember their bedtime stories, the easier it becomes to be what I am: that is a fox. After all, it might be true that we foxes do have a keen fondness for the succulent flesh of young ladies, but in a world like this, our modern era, a phrase like that can have so many meanings.

But I can understand…I can understand why those that were found out were discovered in the process of attaining their lady loves. Knowing your meal inside and out is a singular feeling one can easily become addicted to. We all have our weaknesses, our Marys.

My own Mary is sitting beside me: the jean skirt that she wears show more of her strong thighs than it hides, the light of the street lights emphasize the gentle curve of her calves; her dainty bare feet which rest on the dashboard are pretty things with red polished toes; the black halter top that she wears cup her breast in a way that I’m pretty sure is an invitation; that’s not even touching on her long brown curls, or the sharp, sweet scent that blows my way as she rolls her window down for a breath of fresh air after our shared cigarette. It’s definitely not counting her throaty laugh, her sweet voice as she sings along to a song on the radio or the sweet come-hither look she’s been giving me the past hour and a half as we drive from club to club to show each other off. But, like the original, she too has a tendency to pry and skulk about to satisfy her curiosity, and I must be very careful not to end my trial of blood at the wrong door.

And this is where it gets difficult: she wants to come home with me. She’s been asking for weeks—a month, actually—and I am running out of excuses. My roommate (which I do not have), my parents (who are now long dead), my dog (don’t even ask…)

Et cetera

Et cetera

Et cetera

And with each excuse I can feel her slipping from my grasp and you cannot possibly understand how much the thought of losing her kills me. 

I thought about giving in once or twice, but like every Mary, she has friends and family that would see me chopped up and fed to dogs; it’s better to lose a meal than your head.

She must also be contemplating my unwillingness to take her home with me, for her face goes grave for several long moments despite the fact that she likes the song that’s playing. I glance at her from the corner of my eye as my car rolls to a stop at the three way intersection that turns into her street.

“You should come inside with me,” she suggests as she retracts her legs and fishes about in front of her seat for her strappy heels. “We could make some popcorn, watch a movie: you know I just got a new batch of DVDs from the video store the other day. I betcha there’s something you’ll like.”

Her green eyes brighten as she regards me.  Be bold, they say.

But a voice in my own head whispers the reply: but not too bold.

I don’t say anything as I cross the intersection and follow the road around the bend. Her expression deflates. I don’t see it, but I hear it in the way that she shifts uncomfortably—disappointedly—in her seat as I ease along the road.

“Sure,” I find myself saying as the car turns into her driveway. “Sure, I would like that.” And I smile at her as I put the car into park. After all, her house is not my house.

She brightens again, and in that moment I am breathless. Nothing is more beautiful than her smile, the flush of her cheeks, the way she scrunches her shoulders before she rewards my agreement with a kiss on my own scruffy cheek.

I chuckle as she fumbles with the handle of the car door and eventually pulls herself from her seat to a semi-standing position in her driveway.

“C’mon then!” she chirrups, peeking from beneath the top of the car before disappearing behind the slammed door.

I detangle myself from my seatbelt as she skips up to the red wooden door. Her house is almost as cute as she is. It’s small with white walls and windows with flowerboxes: oddly suiting, I think.

She is flipping through her key ring as I approach, and she exclaims a tiny “a-ha!” and produces the correct key for the lock. As she fits the key into place, a breeze ruffles her hair and carries her scent to me. My mouth waters in anticipation and I move to brush her hair away so I can kiss a bare shoulder

Be bold be bold, her scent urges.

And again, the now incredibly sulky voice from my own mind answers: But not too bold.

I lower my hand as she turns to look at me, and I smile instead of kissing her. She smiles back as she disappears into the house.

“Come on in,” she calls from the darkness, “let me change and I’ll pop us some popcorn.”

I step into what appears to be a front entry. A light waxes in some other room of the house—not enough to illuminate the hall, but enough that I catch a glimpse of her shadow on the wall.

Licking my lips, I start toward the light. So eager am I in my pursuit that my foot catches on a loose corner of the rug and—much to my chagrin—I take a tumble to the floor.

To ease my embarrassment, I turn, my every design focused upon kicking the rug back into its proper place, only to find that it was not the rug which I had tripped over.

My stomach knots as I pick up the half chewed forearm of a man.  “It is not so,” I hear myself whisper as my Mary slips from shadow to shadow, her white teeth and green eyes flashing viciously.

“Nor was it so…” I drop the hand, scramble up to my knees before she has be by the neck, her grip surprisingly strong, her long nails biting into my skin as she brings down a knife “And God forbid it should ever be so!”

And there I see it! Peaking from beneath her skirt, the tuft of a fox’s tail, and I, like a fool, could only shout.