Fox Foot

[a feeble fable]

* * *

At first, there was only a man.

* * *

Then, there was an entire garden.

* * *

This particular man happened to be a most wonderful man, and his garden reflected that better than any mirror or medal ever could - the vegetable patches were as worthy of the gardens of Versailles as their produce was worthy of the table of the Sun King himself; the trees bore such tempting fruit, each and every one of them could easily claim it was the very same tree that got Adam and Eve in so much trouble; the flowers were so lovely in both sight and smell, the bees who rented the hive in the garden’s least windy corner were loath to go beyond the garden’s blackberry-encrusted fences in search of other blooms.

Indeed, the man cared for his garden very much and very well, though certainly not at the expense of its other inhabitants – the aforementioned bees, of course, and also a dozen chickens. White as clouds and just as fluffy, with yellow feet and red combs, the chickens were the perfect conversationalists for someone like him, as their clucking remarks were in turns cheerful, gentle and thoughtful... and after a long day's work, what more could any man want?

In short, the man loved his garden, and he loved and was loved by all who dwelt on its premises. Therefore, when some wild animal managed to strangle the neighbor’s rooster, the man took to setting up traps around the chicken coop, just to be sure.

* * *

One day, one of the traps caught something.

* * *

The man woke up to the pitiful sound of the beast's whimpering and the indignant noise of a dozen worried chickens whose sleep had been disturbed.

It turned out to be a very small, very young fox.

The man took one look at the bleeding creature, its small foot looking even smaller in the trap's iron clutches, and because he was truly a most wonderful man, he took pity on the would-be thief and murderer – first he liberated the paw, then he cleaned the wound, and finally he bandaged the limb as best as he could. The small fox snarled and struggled, but its suffering had weakened it a great deal, so its writhing evoked nothing but even more pity, thus making the man even more determined to help.

* * *

At first, the small fox lived in an old wooden crate in the garden’s most distant corner, as far away from the chicken coop as possible, even though it could barely walk, never mind jump over or dig under the coop’s own low fence. Its large amber-yellow eyes stared, unblinking, at the nearby bleeding heart bush and the rows of leeks. Its large coal-black ears perked, alarmed, at the slightest of sounds - the fall of a ripe apple, the chirp of a wild sparrow.

The bees would drop by the crate from time to time, taking notice of the bowls of fresh water and yesterday's scraps. They would never say anything - they were either too busy or too breathless for idle talk. The man would visit far more regularly – every morning and every evening, in fact – and he would talk at length about everything and nothing, until the fox stopped fearing his scent and his voice.

Eventually, the small fox became sure of its feet and the man became sure of its character – in other words, the fox was allowed out of the crate and into the garden, where it was free to stare and sniff and struggle on its own. The man made sure to be around, in case his help was needed - either with or against the fox's explorations. The fox, however, proved that it was worthy of his trust – it didn’t harass the plants, it didn’t upset the bees, and it didn’t go anywhere near the chicken coop. And if this was only so because neither the plants nor the bees interested the small fox, while the coop was more filled with bad memories than with chickens, as far as the fox was concerned...

... well, the man was free to believe whatever he wanted.

* * *

The chickens did not know what to think of the garden’s newest resident, but because their hearts were as pure as their feathers, they did their best to forgive and forget. After all, they reasoned, the small fox had never been in polite society, so how could it possibly know how to behave? Thus, the chickens took it upon themselves to help with its socialization.

It turned out, however, that they had very little in common – the fox thought nothing of corn seeds while the chickens were unable to comprehend the allure of ‘meat’, whatever that was supposed to be. Soon it became obvious that the only thing they could talk about was the wonderful man.

“He is such a wonderful man!” the chickens crooned in unison.

"He is the best man I've ever known," the small fox agreed.

"He takes care of our unhatched children, he sends them abroad where they can receive good education and better prospects!"

“Also, he broke my leg, and he saved my life.”

"He takes care of our elderly, he lets them live out the rest of their days in peace, in his own house!"

“Also, he broke my leg, and he saved my life.”

The chickens did not quite understand what the fox meant to say, but they could feel the warmth in its voice and they could see the glint in its eyes, and this is how they knew the fox meant well...

... just like the man had meant well, both when he broke the fox's foot and when he saved the fox's life.

* * *

Years passed.

* * *

The man grew older, but not too much. The small fox grew bigger, but not too much, and its hobbling shadow became as much of a part of the garden as the bees’ chorus and the chickens’ babble. Everybody was happy and nobody was hurt.

And if the fox spent its days staring over the blackberry-encrusted fences and over the golden-furred fields, and if it spent its nights dreaming of green forests and blue mountains, and if it thought about whether the present pain in its heart was similar to the past pain in its foot...

... well, the fox was free to think whatever it wanted.