Musings on the Foxes
As I write this, hanging from my favorite branch of my home tree, I see them below walking past, bold as brass, eyeing every small creature in the way with something that approached relish; although they were quick to disguise it with a quick bow of their brown heads whenever they caught someone staring. Mr. Carrots isn’t one to be fooled so easily, though: he lets go of his newspaper and bounds down into his burrow, resurfacing only when he is sure that their paw-steps have receded into the distance.
First there were only around a dozen of these eyesores in our forest, all bushy tail and brown snout and clasped hands. At the beginning they were deferential to the extreme: curtseying to the bisons and hippos, and bowing till their heads almost touched the ground, whenever a larger resident such as Governor Cheeto or the elephants of the Law Council passed them on the streets. As time passed, their mannerisms changed, as did their numbers. From twelve they became twenty, then forty, then sixty, and now I have lost track of them. They’re still polite on the surface, smiling to all the inhabitants of Forest Turf, but I fear they will not be so for much longer. Rumors spread fast; Miss Redbeak and Mr. Scrat see to that.
The number of untoward incidents (which the Law Council still deems to call accidents, regardless of the suspicions surrounding them) has been steadily on the rise ever since last March. Funnily enough, there was a huge cyclone last February and a significant part of the neighboring forest of Gurf was washed away, thanks to my close relatives, who nowadays are reading a book named after their own species. (Crazy, huh?) They came, they saw the trees and they cut down about a hundred of the finest until President Tigger of Forest Gurf mauled one of them so badly that they did not return.
Alas, I’m getting side-tracked. Coming back to last February. As Gurf was washed away, most of its residents chose to remain behind to rebuild the industries and homes and offices and townships. The damage could be easily remedied by a few months’ worth of hard toil. A few took the easier way — fleeing their homeland and planting themselves over here, taking over the newly inaugurated residential complex that the Woodpeckers’ Association spent three months building. They came with deeply moving stories, of houses that had been washed clean off the map, and children squealing for help as their parents struggled to remain afloat and rescue them. Governor Cheeto, the sentimental good soul that he is, had no hesitation in welcoming them with open paws into out family and catering to their every need.
Soon, however, the number of small jungle-folks who went missing, or found dead with a vicious claw slash across their belly increased. Incidents of petty theft and thieving are rising steadily, and more often than not it’s our foxy friends who are found guilty. Rather than being grateful to the State and all that we’ve done for their benefit, through our own money, they grow insolent and downright rude whenever a member of their gang is apprehended in a criminal activity. If accused of something with non-compelling evidence, they shout on our police force, telling them that they’re unfairly targeted because of their being from Forest Gurf, and that we want to alienate them from the rest of the community. Old Nestor would have laughed at that.
And don’t get me started on the number of times the Vulpine Union has rejected our Council’s offer of paid-for and secured passage back to their home forest. The reason they give is that they won’t have any place to sleep at night there, and no food to eat. Forest Gurf is by now back to its former glory, and I hear they’re even building a new athletics stadium. Maybe they’ve forgotten the Nurture for All scheme that started three years back in their own hometown. They’re guaranteed a secure life with any assistance required. So much for universal social welfare.
Sometimes I just lie back on the topmost branch of Maria’s oak tree and wonder why these odious creatures are still allowed to live here, though all the available evidence suggests that they don’t deserve to be here. Life was much more secure here before the foxes arrived. The crime rate was close to zero. The smallest mice could roam free at midnight without a care for the world. Not anymore. I don’t understand why they aren’t sent right back from where they came from. I guess foreign animals should have a thorough background check done on them before they are granted residence here. Maybe I should pack my bananas and head to a tropical island in Madagascar or somewhere. Perhaps life will be better there.
