The Fox Story

It's odd, trying to start this story. There is so much context that surrounds the Fox Story-- the bruise on my foot, the jean jacket, the missed flight, the concert, the Walmart trip, the panic attack, the phone call I never made. Thick ropes of context that wrap around the story and choke it. A dozen other stories that explain why this one happened. I suppose none of it mattered to the fox.

I am driving my car down a road I have never been on before, a wide residential road with an inexplicably high speed limit. My breath is finally steady for the first time in hours, and I am anticipating a peaceful evening. I see the small animal dart in front of my car, and though I slam the brakes as soon as I see it, the collision is marked by a small thump that is felt rather than heard.

In the split second that follows, bubbles of rational thought float around me. Should I keep driving? It must have been a wild animal. These things happen all the time. I did the best I could, didn't I?

Then, like a car hitting a tiny mammal, the hysterics crash into me with cacophonous force. I am hyperventilating, sobbing, "no no no no no this isn't happening."

I turn the car around, and drive past to see a small Thing huddled on the side of the road.

"No no no oh my god oh my god oh my"

I find a side street, maybe a block away from the Thing. I pull over and park, and get out, shivering in the warm evening air. There is a blanket in the back seat-- I grab it and make my way towards the Thing.

"oh my god oh my god oh my g--"

The Thing is a dog of some sorts, certainly wild, and certainly alive. I see his chest rising and falling, almost aggressively, as if he is hyperventilating like I am. I think, in the moment, that it looks like a wolf-- but not a big wolf, like a puppy. With shaking hands-body-breath-fingers, I pull out my phone and search for animal hospitals in the area. To my immense relief, there is a 24 hour emergency vet only two miles from where I am. A woman picks up on the third ring, and I held my breath to keep from crying as I spoke.

"Hello? Um, I think I hit an animal while driving, if I brought it in, would you be able to take a look at it?"

"Um, maybe. How big is the animal?"

"It's like the size of a dog."

"It's your dog?"

"No, it's a wild animal. I hit it with my car."

"What kind of dog?"

"Maybe a wolf or a fox or something? I'm not sure, but it's not fully grown."

"Okay, I think we can take a look. Let me check."

The woman disappears from the other end and soon after confirms that they will indeed take the animal. I exhale all the air I had been holding, and I hang up just as the panicked sobbing makes its reappearance.

With infinite caution I place the blanket in front of the wolf-fox-dog-puppy and slide it underneath his little body-- all the while acutely aware of the cars hurtling by (again, inexplicably high speed limit), inches from the two of us. Oh-so-carefully I scoop the puppy into my arms and am immediately surprised by how Warm he is. The tiny thing, maybe thirty pounds, radiates heat through the blanket and straight into my chest. It's a surreal feeling, to hold something so wild and feral and delicate and broken and warmer than anything I can remember. And slowly, I begin the walk back to my car.

The single block to my car stretches out to miles, and time slows to a crawl. I gulp down strangled sobs, all the while murmuring incomprehensibly to the thing in my arms, as if I thought my voice alone could keep it alive.

"Hey, it's okay buddy. It's okay."

"I'm so sorry, I am so sorry. It's okay buddy, we're almost there."

"Almost there, just hang on."

"It's okay I'm sorry hang on I'm sorry oh my god oh my god--"

After what must have been hours or maybe days, I unlock my car and place him in my backseat. It is then that I am able to get my first good look at him, illuminated by the ceiling lights.

The first thing I notice are the fleas. His skin is alive them, crawling around his neck and head, weaving in and out of his fur. And the fur. To this day I could not say for sure if it was red or grey-- it was both and somehow neither. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is less intense now, but still (I convince myself) steady. His nose is wet, and where it touches the leather of my car seat he leaves a smudge of saliva and blood.

The revulsion-pity-guilt-fear is too much to bear, so I carefully close the door and get in the driver's seat. My phone tells me it'll be a ten minute drive, and I take a deep breath and start.

Immediately the smell hits me. Wet dog, overwhelming the space of the car and invading my nostrils. I roll down the windows, not because I couldn't handle the smell of wet dog, but out of fear that it would turn into the smell of blood.

I notice that I'm holding my breath again to keep from crying-- I am instinctively listening for his breathing in the back seat. And after a minute, I hear it-- this soft, snuffling, almost snoring sound like the way my dog sounds when he's asleep. After hearing his, I allow my own breathing to resume, along with the mumbled nonsense from before.

"Almost there buddy, hang on, it's okay it's okay it's okay I'm so sorry--"

"Okay okay we're here do you see the sign? It says 'vet', so it's gonna be okay, it's okay, okay…"

I open the backseat door, briefly check to see that my companion is still breathing, and hurry inside the building. As I walk, I mentally prepare myself to not seem like I'm absolutely insane. I think about my dad, and how calm and rational and reasonable he is. I decide to pretend to be him, just for a little while.

Using my best Calm and Rational and Reasonable voice, I explain to one of the vets that I just called in, and that I hit a wild animal, and that he's in my car, and that I'd like some help carrying him, please.

She follows me outside and I lift him up, still wrapped in my blanket. To my sheer horror, the little fox's head slumps off my shoulder and hangs limp next to my elbow, and I have to work hard to keep pretending to be Dad.

"Are you sure it's still alive?"

"He was breathing just a second ago, I checked, I swear… "

She helps me carry him into the building and puts him down on an examination table. Relief washes over me as I see his head move slightly. I step back and crane my head as a couple more doctors surround the table and begin to work, probing, rearranging tiny limbs, fetching equipment. One of them takes a roll of gauze and wraps his leg. Another gives him water using a squeeze bottle with a nozzle.

At some point another staff member gives me a form to fill out. She explains it's to relinquish ownership of a wild animal. I scrawl my name and phone number, hands shaking, and pass it back to her.

"Alrighty then. You're free to go."

I don't go. Instead, I float back to the examination table and hover a few feet away. I know I should leave. This isn't my problem anymore. It's not my problem.

I stay there for another five, maybe ten minutes, watching the doctors work. Eventually I ask one of the vets (still using my best Dad impression):

"Do you think-- would it be too much trouble to ask you to-- um-- I wrote my number down on the form, could someone text me so I know if-- if he's okay?"

The woman gives me a sympathetic, or perhaps pitying, look. "Unfortunately, you've surrendered care of the animal, so we can't do that."

"Oh, okay, that makes sense." It does not.

She continues, softer this time: "I think, at this point, we're going to help him go to sleep and make his transition easier. You did the right thing, though. This way he can be comfortable."

At that moment, the actor who had been playing my dad decides to quit. Now it is just me.

"Oh-- okay. Okay, thank you--"

And that's all I could force out before the sobs start making their way up from the bottom of my throat. I head for the door, barely hearing the vet say "I'm sorry" as I run to my car.

The minute I slam the car door, something erupts. Some dam breaks, or some hurricane makes landfall. I am crying like I've never cried before-- deep, wracking sobs that barely leave me time to breathe before they hit again.

I start driving home, unable to control my tears but not wanting to stay at the animal hospital any longer. The incoherent babbling comes back, interspersed with gasping inhales: "I'm so sorry, oh god. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to. Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, I--"

I can't stop thinking about the warmth of his body against mine, or the snuffly sound of his breath. I can't stop wondering if he has a family waiting for him to come home. I can't stop imagining him taking his last breaths on that examination table. The guilt comes in waves, ebbing and flowing as I replay the evening in my head.

I keep driving, sobbing, windows still rolled down. I wonder, for a moment, who I could ask for help. Who I could ask to shift the weight of the world, the weight of this small animal's life, off my shoulders for just a moment.

One name crosses my mind. I promised myself never to call him, never to ask for his help-- but wouldn't it be nice to give up? Just once? To surrender, and let someone hold me in their arms, just for a minute? But-- do I really deserve to have my guilt assuaged?

The thought fades to mist, and eventually, so does the storm.

It takes hours to stop crying, and even then, sitting in my apartment, I find it nearly impossible to get up in order to eat or shower or sleep. It's like moving through mud, like moving with something heavy in my arms.

Time passes, and the weight slowly lifts. A couple days later, I look in the mirror to see three red-raised lines on my chest, thin scratches from something that had been struggling.

I suppose I should have trimmed my nails that night.