Spirit Fox

They told me it would be like this. . .that I would be mourning the death of a fox, a wild fox, who had spent a little of his wild life with me.

But I hadn’t chosen him, it was he who had chosen me as a companion for about five minutes a day for just over a month.

Even on that first day I could see he was quite scrawny. They told me he probably had rabies and I should steer clear of him and call animal control, but he wasn’t aggressive or foaming at the mouth. What he was was old and, I believe, wanting a companion on his march to death.

I put out water for him, and the mice which my cat Luna caught and kindly shared with me. But though Fox drank some of the water, he never touched the mice or any other kind of food that I put out for him. He kept growing leaner and moving more slowly, and still he came each day at sunset.

We never spoke to each other, but sat companionably about 3 yards apart for those precious five minutes, after which he would simply disappear into the bushes.

I expected him to just disappear altogether—one day I would sit and wait and never see him again—but one day he came early, lay down, and never left.

What to do? We had shared something sacred together. . .the end of a life, wild and free. . .and that had to mean something. But what to do? What would make for a fitting send-off and shrine?

Luckily Fox was not a physical beauty or I might have been tempted to save his tail or even have him stuffed, but I like to think my better nature would have stopped me in any case.

I decided to look for his den. . .which must have been nearby. . .then lay him in it and close it off with some large stones. It was easier to find than I could have hoped; it was the stones which were more challenging, but I found some in the nearby creek bed.

Somehow just closing the den up didn’t feel like enough. I ended up making some prayer flags and stringing them up in the tree above the den. Lastly I lit a candle and sat there until it flickered out.

Every night thereafter, for a month, I visited the shrine for a few moments, reading poems to Spirit Fox. This was my favorite:

As I walked home last night,

I saw a lone fox dancing

In the bright moonlight.

I stood and watched,

Then took the low road, knowing

The night was his by right.

Sometimes, when words ring true,

I’m like a lone fox dancing

In the morning dew.

~Ruskin Bond~

It’s been several years and I have moved on from the land on which Spirit Fox is buried. Today I have returned, to mark that anniversary. The prayer flags which remain are quite tattered, looking much like the fox at the end of his life. I did not plan to replace them, but I do sit and light a candle. After a few minutes, I hear a scuffling coming from the brush, followed by a nose poking out. I sit very still and slowly another, younger, healthier fox emerges from the undergrowth. He looks at me and I think I recognize the eyes of my old friend. Is this him, resurrected, or perhaps one of his offspring? It does not matter. This time it is he who has come to sit with me, perhaps knowing that it is my time to follow Spirit Fox out of this world and into the next. I am comforted by this thought.

This young fox sits with me until I get up to leave, then he disappears back into the woods. I don’t have much time left, but what could be better than spending my last days with this fox, as Spirit Fox did with me. I resolve to return for as many days as I have left.

My friend, the fox lover, has passed. He told me about his experiences with Spirit Fox and Younger Fox, and asked me to do him a favor. How could I say “no”? Accordingly, I have brought his ashes, some prayer flags he himself made, and a candle. He made me a map so I would know how to get here.

I light the candle, and string the flags up around the tree where 1 old piece of cloth still flutters in the breeze. I sit on the ground and say some prayers before bringing out my phone to play some Native American flute music by Carlos Nakai. One of the pieces is called Death Song. When that song begins, a gentle breeze finds its way into this space, and then the foxes arrive.

They begin a dance and, without words, invite me to join them. I have never been a confident dancer, but who am I to say “No” to such an invitation? The music changes from a slow lament to something a little livelier. . .more celebratory in nature, and I follow my teachers’ lead. I don’t even notice when the sun sets and the full moon rises and then sets itself. I realize my friends are leaving and I have grown tired, though full of gratitude towards the animals who had taken my friend for one of their own.

My only question is this? Was this real? How would I ever explain this to my wife, my friends, my colleagues who, being part of academia, are likely to view me with disdain. Then it hits me. There is one person who would understand. . .the man who wrote the poem which my friend recited for Spirit Fox. He actually described my encounter with the foxes in his poem. I consider writing to tell him what his poem has meant to me, to my friend, and then discard the idea, for he clearly already knows.