by tracks in the mud, the odd dropping, and the strong,
musky smell that is left hy the dog fox to mark out
his territory. Although I searched diligently in
early Spring, I failed to find their lair, and I am
still not sure whether they reared any cubs, but the
appearance of the young fox I have already spoken of,
the following year, suggests that they did.
In August 1971, the corn was ripe, and on one
fine, sunny day the harvester arrived. A few days
later, some local people and myself were gathered to
see the last cut. "There's a fox in that corn",
remarked one observant lad, "I can't wait to see him
clash out". The last of the corn was cut, and the
only thing to dash out was a pheasant. Soon the
crowd was gathered around the mass of blood and fur,
which along with the intact skull, were the only
remains of the vixen. The dog fox outlived its
mate by a mere five months. He was run over whilst
crossing the main road early one morning. He did
this regularly to hunt the fields on the other side,
so it was bound to happen one day. I mourned its
death under the illusion that it was the last of its
line, but with the appearance of the young fox a few
months later, I soon forgot my woes!
Of other foxes in the area, the most memorable
one was probably a three-legged fox, whose hunting
path ran through the garden of one of our oldest
residents. To everyone's surprise, it survived and
thrived in the area for a long time, which proves
wrong the theory that all badly injured foxes contract
and die of gangrene.