The Fox and the Hound (24 page)
At dusk he rose and stretched, shooting out his claws, and then went over to sniff at the den. He heard nothing, but because the smells were all right he went out on his night's hunting in a cheerful frame of mind. In a field, he came on the tracks of a woodchuck who had traveled back and forth between two holes several hundred yards apart, apparently unable to make up his mind which to use for a den. Tod walked meticulously in the chuck's tracks - as the chuck had a shorter stride Tod was obliged to shorten his own stride to make his pads fit in the imprints - and enjoyed this game so much that after coming to where the chuck had gone down one of the holes, he turned and made a round trip, still stepping exactly in the tracks.
Tiring of the sport, he continued on. By a pond, he came upon a Canada goose who had left her precious nest and eggs to do a little grazing on the tender new grass. She regarded Tod suspiciously, while he, knowing she would immediately take off and land in the pond if he rushed at her, pretended the most elaborate unconcern. He seemed intrigued by every stone and patch of grass, snuffing at each carefully while all the time approaching the goose by a circuitous course. She gradually became convinced that he had no interest in her, and continued her feeding. Tod edged close and closer, until finally he was able to make his rush. He sprang for her neck, but the goose threw herself backward, honking loudly, and managed to beat him off with her wings. Her cries were instantly answered from the pond, and the gander rushed up the bank and went for Tod, hissing in fury. An infuriated gander was more than Tod was prepared to handle and he turned to run, but there was a fence line here that made a sharp bend, and the gander rushed him into the angle. For a few seconds Tod got a real fright, for the gander was beating him with the knobby elbows of his wings and stabbing him with his piledriver beak, and the combination was murderous. At last Tod managed to break away, and fled across the meadow with the gander in pursuit. Once in the open, Tod could easily outdistance the bird; his fright over, he even turned to play with the gander, making little darts at him and swinging away at the last instant while the gander charged him with cup-bent wings and lunging neck When the bird saw he could not catch the fox, he retreated with dignity to the pond where his wife was already afloat. Tod ran along the bank watching them, and then loped off as though finished with the game.
Tod had been bored lately, and now that he was recovered from the shock of the gander's savage attack, he rather enjoyed the excitement of the engagement. Swinging around, he stole back toward the pond, taking care to keep downwind, for he did not know that the birds could not smell him. He crept to the top of a little rise and lay there in the fast-gathering darkness, watching them. He lay fully stretched out, his long nose between his extended forepaws, his ears up, and an eager expression on his face, his lips pulled back in a half grin. If ever a fox looked "foxy," Tod was that fox.
Motionless as a stone, he saw the goose swim to a high bank on one side of the pond and climb it to her nest. She carefully removed the grey down with which she had covered the eggs and, after elaborate wrigglings and twistings, sat down to brood. Still not moving a hair, Tod studied the lay of the land. Then he glided off the hill and crept toward the unconscious goose. Rainwater runoff on the slope had made a shallow trench, and at first Tod was able to crawl along that, but then the trench ended and he was forced to cover the last few yards on almost bare slope. It was almost completely dark now and he inched along by means of gentle pushes with his elbows, nose touching the ground. By imperceptible degrees he reached the nest and softly inserted one exquisite paw under the goose as gently as he had brushed dirt off the trap pans. He found an egg and worked it out until he could slide his thin, pointed nose in and grab it. The goose shifted her weight and gargled to herself, but did not realize what was going on. As soon as he had the egg in his mouth, Tod hastily backed away and then turned and ran.
He went to one of his favorite eating places, for although Tod would eat anywhere, he had certain spots he preferred. Chewing open one end of the egg, he licked out the contents and then gamboled around the empty shell in triumph. The whole adventure had contained just enough danger to give it spice. Hugely content with himself, and glowing with a feeling of well-being, he continued on his rounds.
Tod was so delighted with his smartness that he played with rather than hunted the game, and it was only when the stars began to wash out and the dawn breeze stirred the aspens that he realized he had a family to feed. Sobered, he headed for one of the several housing developments that had mushroomed in the neighborhood over the past year or so. Tod at first had been highly suspicious of these places; but his inveterate curiosity had caused him to investigate them and he had found that they were an excellent source of food.
He went to the nearest and made a cursory check of several yards that a few weeks before had had pens containing rabbits, chicks, and ducklings. Tod had cleared them all out long ago and they had never been restocked. Still, there was always the chance. He then jumped up on a porch railing and ran along it. A parakeet had been left out in its cage here one night, and Tod had attended to it. Nothing like that had happened again, but Tod always investigated. Being thirsty and liking milk, he went to several doorsteps where milk bottles had been left. With quick, hard blows of his long nose, Tod drove in the cardboard lids and lapped up the milk as far as his thin muzzle could reach, going from one bottle to another until he was satisfied.
He then made a tour of the garbage cans. By standing on his hind legs and bracing his forefeet against the side of a can, he could pry off the lid with his all-purpose nose. In one can, Tod found a real prize. A chicken carcass had been thrown away, still with plenty of meat on it. Tod collected the carcass and also picked out several tidbits, which he inserted inside the carcass as though stuffing it. Then with the carcass in his mouth he started off.
He had only gone a few yards when a house dog that had been sleeping in its kennel came tearing out, screaming its stupid head off. Tod could easily have outdistanced the dog, but he had begun to think of the development as part of his range - he had left his scent marks on several bushes and fence posts - and the sudden outburst gave him a bad scare and made him furious. Dropping the chicken, he swiveled around and went at the dog with a fury far greater than its own. Astonished, the dog turned and Red, his angry cries turning into frightened yips. Tod gave him a good slash on the flank with one of his long, protruding canines and then went back, picked up the chicken, and beat a hasty retreat. He hated noise and disturbance, and there might be bigger dogs around.
He dropped the chicken at the mouth of the den and waited until he saw the black nose of the vixen appear, sniff at it, and then caught the quick flash of her white teeth as she seized the carcass and pulled it in. Satisfied that she had accepted his offering, he headed for his lying-up spot.
Peaceful day followed peaceful day until the time came when the pups were able to walk and make short excursions from the den. As they grew stronger and more confident, the pups might come out at any time of day, but they were always nervous and jumpy until twilight. When the long shadows stretched out, and there was no glare and the cool of the evening tempered the breathless heat of the day, they would tumble out and frolic on the yellow fan of hard-packed earth, oblivious to danger. At such times the vixen would lie out above the den and watch them with a devoted, happy expression that was as clearly defined as Tod's mischievous grin when he was watching the geese. Tod kept clear at such times, standing sentinel in case of trouble, but he also enjoyed the pups; and if one of them got involved with a pinching bug or was frightened by a yellow jacket feeding on one of the half-eaten carcasses that strewed the den area, Tod was on his feet and ready to go to the pup's help even more quickly than the vixen.
The only bad days for the pups were rainy days. The older foxes accepted the rain philosophically, but the active pups, cooped up in the den, were miserable. One pup would crawl up the entrance burrow and sit with the raindrops pelting off the end of his nose, dolefully regarding the weather and wishing it would clear. Before long, one of his litter mates would drag him away by his brush and take his place, hoping to detect some change in the weather. When the sun did finally break through, what rejoicing! No matter what time of day it was, the whole litter would come bobbing out to cavort in the open, glad to be at liberty after the imprisonment of the den. Even the damp earth that clung to their pads and brushes was a small price to pay for the chance to stretch their long legs.
Tod was an excellent provider - too good. He brought in far more food than the family could eat, and the den area became littered with putrefying carcasses surrounded by halos of buzzing bluebottles. Although the foxes enjoyed the smell of carrion, ultimately the den became too odoriferous even for them, and they moved to another burrow. By now the pups were half grown, and old enough to travel on their own. They followed their parents to the new quarters in single file, each pup stepping conscientiously in the paw marks ahead of him so that to a casual observer only one fox would seem to have passed.
Now came the training period. At first, training was indistinguishable from play. When playing, the pups bounced around like woolly balls as they attacked beetles and chased crickets, yet even so they were coordinating their muscles and learning skills that would later stand them in good stead when handling a rabbit or woodchuck Their play was really a form of exploration and experimentation, for after mastering one technique they would then try another, dropping any that were unsuccessful and retaining any that worked. Generally one lesson was enough of either success or failure, and the pups never forgot either. Even when completely relaxed, the pups were still learning, for their restless eyes and noses were always at work, picking up new sights and smells. They learned to distinguish between taste and smell - no easy task, for these two senses are coordinated. At first, they "handled" everything with their teeth and tongue to get the taste of it. Later, one quick sniff told them all they needed to know. They also learned from each other, realizing when one had made a mistake in taking one of the crippled animals the parents brought in, and trying a different system when their turn came.
They watched their parents and duplicated their actions. Although very few vocal commands were ever given, the foxes were able to communicate an astonishing amount of information by their brushes, facial expressions, body movements, angle of ears, and even by their fur - when raised it meant danger. They could register fear, anger, joy, submissiveness, and jealousy. The pups learned to know that the screaming of crows or the buzz of a red squirrel meant something was coming. They learned always to get downwind of anything they were curious about. They learned that the den always meant safety and that going to ground was the best of all protections - a lesson they never forgot and one that Tod had never learned because he had been raised by man.
When the time came for their first formal lessons in hunting, either Tod or the vixen took them out one at a time, as foxes never hunt in packs, only in pairs. The first quarry was mice. Watching, the cubs learned that as soon as a mouse was smelled or heard, you stopped with lifted brush (the correct angle of the brush was important, as you needed it to balance you when you sprang). When the exact spot was located to a pinpoint, then came the long, stiff-legged jump with the brush thrown to one side as a counterweight. If you missed, you made a quick series of hard, short jumps to make the mouse move, as it was probably lying motionless, hoping to escape unnoticed.
Although the male pups were more aggressive and venturesome, it was a little vixen who first caught big game. On the same pond where the geese lived there were a number of mallards, some permanent residents and some visitors who dropped in mornings and evenings. Early one morning while Tod's mate and the young vixen were returning from a night's hunting, the little vixen ran down to the pond and began to rush back and forth along the bank, staring curiously at the ducks. The ducks were not frightened - they knew perfectly well that as long as they stayed in the water they were quite safe - but they automatically set up the alarm cry, following the fox around the pond much as the hen pheasant had followed Tod's first mate through the pines.
The young fox began to play with them, making graceful, curving bounds, running in circles, and even lying on her back to pat at her brush with both paws. These were the same motions she made when playing with her litter mates, and she wanted the ducks to play with her. She was naturally playful and had gone through this routine when she first saw sheep and had tried to do it when she first encountered a dog, until the old vixen's actions showed her that dogs were dangerous. The ducks were charmed. They raised their wings and sat back on their rumps to see better. Then they swam in closer and closer, flirting their tails with excitement as they came. The little vixen ran a few yards along the shore to encourage them to chase her, and the whole flock hurried after, pushing each other out of the way. By now they had forgotten she was a fox; she seemed only a strange creature behaving in a curious but intriguing fashion.