The Fox is Not My Spirit Animal

A day ago, a red fox snatched one of my chickens as I led them back to the coop. It was 4:30, not dark yet not bright; thunder boomed in the distance. The two hens followed my Pied-Piper lure of blueberries and scratch, less than 15 feet behind me. A sudden squawking, and the fox dashed from undergrowth edging the field, and picked off the hen furthest from me.

Again, not 15 feet away.

I ran after the fox, yelling, hoping it would drop the chicken. Hoping the chicken would lose a few feathers and be, at best, traumatized.

The fox bounded into the deep woods. I plunged after it, but it disappeared into brush and shadows. For almost an hour I walked the back perimeter of the property. No sign of a live chicken. No sign of a dead chicken. And no sign of the fox. The trail of feathers ended at the forest’s edge.

Rain fell, softly at first, then more insistently. Near the house, the remaining chicken trembled under the low-hanging branches of a pine tree. I settled on the porch, waited for her to slowly emerge and make her way back to the coop. She hopped to the highest perch and I secured her for the night.

Thunder boomed. Inside, my dog hid behind the barn door housing the washer and dryer. Her safe spot for the late afternoon storms that roll down daily from the mountains in this hot, humid August. I settled beside her, she clambered into my lap, and we trembled together.

Many years ago, a friend wise in the ways of nature, a woman who possessed an uncanny intuition about spiritual aspects of life, suggested the fox was my spiritual animal. For the past week I’d had a series of dreams involving foxes, usually running in distant fields, and on my way to visit her, a red fox loped across the road. A month before the dreams began, a bad storm had ripped through my suburban neighborhood and part of a large PVC drainage pipe rolled down the hill from a neighbor’s house. When the storm cleared, we went to investigate. Inside, a fox slept, oblivious to our curiosity. Later, it dug a burrow in the side of compost mounded among pines.

I’ve always admired foxes—their cunning, their stealth, their physical beauty, an odd mix of cat and dog. They don’t often make noise, but their cries are quite haunting. My friend told me foxes represent patience, and using a fox’s intuition in silence and solitude will help you solve any problem.

Moving to a rural area where I know no one is challenging me in physical, emotional, financial, and spiritual ways. The active presence of the fox (and, actually, at least one of her kits, as a much smaller, younger fox later loitered outside the secured coop) reflect the challenges I’m encountering in this environment. To be honest, I cursed that fox as I chased after it into the dark woods. I wished the beautiful creature ill. I’m used to rats and dirt bikes and, lately, assaults and squeegee boy murders— and much worse—in the city. I’m not used to wild animals encroaching upon my property.

When I woke the next morning, the anger, resentment, and frustration had The foxes on my land are telling me to see my situation for what it is, not how I wish it to be. To be adaptable and fluid, not proscribed and reactive. I’m sure I’ll bump up against other predators on my land—insects and rabbits and raccoons, perhaps even coyote. I will learn from them and adapt to their presence. For now, I’ll observe the foxes, learn their habits, discourage them from becoming too comfortable here. I’ll secure my lone chicken in her run. My son and I have already come up with a plan to build-out the current coop that provides limited free-range opportunities. In the spring, I’ll start with new chicks, perhaps a rooster, get another, larger dog, and figure out how to cohabit with the foxes.

Perhaps the fox is my spirit animal—she has already taught me much. Peace…