By Maryanna Gabriel
Mrs Fox: Why did you lie to me?
Mr. Fox: Because I’m a wild animal.
From the movie, "Fantastic Mr. Fox" by Wes
Anderson, loosely based on the story by Roald Dahl. |
| It All Seems So Group Of Sevenish... |
I am in an expanse. It seems
endless. I have succumbed to the charms
of Northern Ontario, of the trees and lakes here. The parks are quite
wonderful, usually centered around some geographic feature of beauty and always
well managed and staffed. It all seems Group of Sevenish, the lakes, the rivers,
the storm tossed waves, the palette of the landscape. I have never seen a fox in the wild before
but yesterday, there before me, was one. He was lying in the middle of the
road, sunning himself. I stared carefully, taking in the silhouette as he stood
and stretched and lay back down. I thought what perfect camouflage being right
out in the open. How brilliantly bold, really. Last night I slept by
a big old pine tree, a huge moon sailing through a star lit sky in an expanse of
deep blue. I awoke at three in the morning and, with a doggy bag firmly clutched
to my bosom, I decided to walk with Lexie to the “Comfort Station”. In the full
moonlight, a fox crossed our path. He sat in front of us and started, well, not
exactly baying, more sounding like a dog with a sore paw, a sound that starts
out as a bay and then kind of short circuits. Fortunately, Lexie stayed quietly
at my side, she did not bark, for we were amid sleeping campers. I kept
standing there in the night under the
moon waiting for the fox to give ground so we could pass but no, he did not. He
just kept up with this terrible rackety howling. I backed up. He still kept it
up and I almost had the feeling he was considering a charge. I conceded. You
win Mr. Fox.
 |
| Succumbed To The Charms Here |
We reversed our course and walked the long way around, my feet crunching
along the roadside, past the snores of sleeping campers, as I nervously
eyed the rustling vegetation beside us. This morning I packed up and drove to a
picnic spot for breakfast. I write this by a beautiful lake where I hear the
cry of eagles. I have just looked up from my crumpet to espy yet another fox,
casual as you please, all red tipped on tail, paws, and snout, with a snowy white
chest prancing in front of me. This is three times a fantastic fox
has crossed my path. It must mean something terribly important but exactly what escapes me.