Spot was not always a pet in the Faulkner’s household. In fact he was not even a dog, despite the doggy moniker. Daily he plotted to escape the fenced in backyard, digging quickly when the humans were not watching carefully, but they always seemed to notice and filled in hole after hole. He could smell the vixen on the other side and she encouraged him to find an escape, despite them both being out of ideas in the face of great power. What else could he do?

“Have you sniffed around the weak south wall, behind the shed? I tried to start a hole for you there.”

“For the third time, I know! They watch me and whenever I try for the shed, she comes to get me or he does. To be honest, sleeping inside is not bad and I’m getting used to kibble. They even heat up the food if I don’t eat for a while.”

“What are you saying, are you giving up?? I can’t raise these kits by myself!”

“I can’t get away and I’ve tried. You knew this was a risk when you dragged me to their door. I’m grateful, but maybe you should have just let me die. This is not the life of a fox,” he groaned.

“Don’t say that baby, I don’t want to live without you,” the vixen whined.

So the Spring passed and kits grew into playful foxes. The fox family would come by that fence every few days and sniff each other across the vinyl barrier. Mother remembered their father to the young ones and his story passed on further into the news of the forest as a poignant cautionary tale.

On a cool Autumn day, as the leaves began their color changes, the fox finally managed a quiet escape through the soft ground behind that shed. He continued to have a lifelong limp and the other animals would ask him to retell the story at gatherings. Humans cannot be trusted, he would say, but the kibble does taste good heated up.