Foxes Invade Family Garden, Prompt Truce with Homeowner

Late one afternoon, I stood by the living room's big bay window overlooking the street. I heard my middle son coming down the stairs and heading to the kitchen.

"Look at this," I said. His footsteps slowed with reluctance as he changed course.

"What," he said, pulling up beside me with his laptop tucked under his chin.

"Over there, by the blue car," I said. He craned his neck.

"A fox eating from a bin," he said.

"I watched him tip it gently on its side," I said. "Then he undid the latch with one paw and pulled the bag out with his teeth."

"Huh," he said.

"Then he spread the contents out across the road, and now he's helping himself," I said.

"And you just watched," he said.

"It's the circle of life, innit," I said.

"I don't think that's …"

The dog bounded into the room and leaped onto the sofa between us. The sofa skidded forward a foot and hit the window sill. The dog stood with its front paws on the back, watching the fox and whining.

"You're not allowed," I said.

More foxes roam the area than ever, moving with striking nonchalance. The dog patrols the back garden, but a section of collapsed brick wall offers easy access. Foxes have taken over from squirrels as my main garden pest. They may have replaced them, or eaten them.

"Something has chewed the thumbs off my gardening gloves," I told my wife one Saturday as we weeded separate beds.

"That's the fox," she said.

"I know it's the fox," I said, "because he's hidden the gloves inside this half-empty bag of compost."

"You can't just leave things like that out overnight," she said.

"I used to be able to leave things like that out," I said.

"Not any more," she said.

"I miss the squirrel," I said.

The fox causes more damage than the squirrel did. Squirrels stole my tomatoes; the fox bit clean through my garden hose just below the tap. So I adopted a policy: in the back garden, the fox and I are enemies. Out front, we are wary neighbors, getting by for an easy life.

I suspect the fox steals my delivery parcels from the doorstep, but I will not escalate without proof. I doubt the fox realizes front-garden me and back-garden me are the same person. I want to keep it that way. A fox could chew your brake lines while you sleep.

One night, alone in the kitchen, the dog raced down the stairs, past me, and pressed its nose to the garden door glass. As we peered into the darkness, the security light on my office shed snapped on. It lit up the fox in the middle of the lawn.

I let the dog out. The dog chased the fox into the gap between my office and the garden wall. Terrible noises came from the crevice. The fox gave no ground, and the dog lacked room to turn. At last the fox climbed onto the shed roof, and the dog backed out.

"Good work," I said as the dog slunk back inside. "That should keep the new hose safe for a few days."

Later that week, the dog and I pulled up to the house in the car. The fox sat in the middle of the road. The dog went wild, darting from front seat to back.

"Be cool," I said. The dog barked like mad. The fox stayed put.

I leashed the dog for the short walk from the curb to the front door. The dog strained on hind legs, growling and tugging at the lead. The fox yawned, stretched, and walked to the school gates at the road's end, slipping between the bars.

"I think we got away with that one," I said. "No thanks to you."

That evening, with a shopping list topped by beer, I put on a jacket and headed to the shops. Halfway down the road, I spotted the fox approaching on the pavement. I held my path; so did he. I pulled out my phone and glanced at it, looking up only as the fox drew near.

"All right?" I said as we passed.

The fox gave me a look that said: can't complain.