My childhood neighborhood in urban Atlanta was full of large, mature trees and pockets of densely wooded areas. I grew up amidst plenty of small wildlife. Squirrels, chipmunks and birds were, and are, plentiful. For some reason, we often saw an opossum sitting placidly on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s home, easily visible from our kitchen window. Friends tell me that foxes, coyotes and deer all make the occasional appearance these days, but I never spotted any in all my years there. So I wasn’t prepared to be surrounded by the larger wild creatures we see every day here in Northern Virginia.

We had been in our present home just a few months when my husband and I awakened to a horrific screeching sound.  My first thought was that our daughter, then about eighteen months old, was crying out, in a most terrible way.

“She’s OK! She’s OK! It’s not her!,” my husband assured me. “It’s coming from outside.” It was spring, and the windows were open.

The screeching continued. It still sounded like a child suffering a brutal attack.

It wasn’t until the next day that we determined the source of the noise: a fox.  Just a little red fox.

Over the last twenty years we’ve come to be aware of the many foxes around us.  Now that we know where to look, we see them as they go about their typically quiet everyday lives.  We consider it a privilege to share our space with them.  Their middle-of-the-night screeches no longer frighten us.  Sometimes I’ve looked out and watched with interest as a fox stands in the center of our yard and yells out, repeatedly.   During daylight hours, our local foxes regularly follow certain routes, from one patch of wooded county land to another, crossing yards, or following  paved paths like driveways and walkways.  Occasionally we’ll spot them curled up and snoozing in a patch of sun.

When our dog Kiko was alive, his favorite look-out spot was by the fence in our side yard, where he could watch the foxes on their rounds.  They frequently passed within a few yards of the boundary. But neither Kiko nor the foxes made a sound. They eyed one another with intense scrutiny, as if wondering if they might be related.  The Shiba Inu is sometimes called the “little fox dog,” and the two are similar in size and appearance, with their thick red fur and pointed ears.  The fox’s long bushy tail, though, contrasts with Kiko’s shorter, curly one.  In a post from last winter, I remarked that a glimpse of a fox in the front yard sometimes prompts a moment of panic when I think it’s Kiko, still with us, but alarmingly beyond the safety of the fence.  The foxes have become a sort of stand-in for our beloved dog, and I find their presence comforting.  In their mannerisms, they also remind me of Kiko. They look at humans with a calm, steady gaze in their golden-amber eyes, then glance away coolly, as if to say, “I’m fine without you.”  Their black-tipped ears twitch at the slightest sound.  And like my dog in his agile prime, they can jump up, turn on a dime, and dash away speedily.

After our return from Cape Cod, I was glad that the fox I’ve come to see most often hadn’t moved on to new territory.  I call him Freddie, and he’s evidently the senior male, the group patriarch, father to three cubs.  Early on sunny mornings, he’s often curled up in front of his favorite tree in my mother’s yard.  In the winter, he was frequently accompanied by his mate, a nursing female.  I dubbed her Frankie, short for Francesca.  She was dainty and skittish, slightly smaller than Freddie, and lighter in color, with a narrower face.  I haven’t seen her for a couple of months.   But their youngsters are everywhere:  long, lanky adolescents,  lean and big-eared.  The sibling in charge is a spirited, fearless female.  I dubbed her Snowball for the prominent bob of white at the end of her tail. She’s a skilled and patient hunter, often lying flat in the mulch, blending in, motionless, waiting to pounce.  And sometimes she and the other young ones venture inside our fenced area.  They’re small enough to pop easily in and out through the wrought-iron bars.  Now that Kiko’s nearly fifteen-year tenure as guard is over, the area has become even more of a safe sanctuary for birds, squirrels and chipmunks.  But with his absence, his foxy look-a-likes have become bolder.  When I’m at my desk and spot Snowball inside the fence, I raise the window, and she flees immediately.  Foxes are intelligent, and they seem to learn quickly the limits of human hospitality.  But they’re also persistent and sneaky.

Just the other day I happened to witness Snowball flying across the front yard with a bushy-tailed squirrel in her jaws.  It’s a wild kingdom out there.  I’d prefer that all our neighborhood critters were vegetarians, but it’s not up to me. 

I wonder about little Frankie.  I’d like to think she’s moved on, by choice.   It’ unlikely, I know, but I hope she’s living her best life in another welcoming enclave, relishing the absence of familial responsibilities.   After all, she knows her teenagers can take care of themselves.