Year-round Open Seasons

Consistent adverse propaganda, politically-brewed control methods, conservational hocus-pocus, the raucous accusations of the uninformed, can relegate the Red Fox to the same dusty museum niche now occupied by the heath hen and the passenger pigeon. The trouble is, most people know so little about the fox and his place in the overall wildlife picture that they would not recognize one if they met him in a phone booth. They attempt to solve the so-called "fox problem" by extermination drives, by pouring bounties down the drain, and by year-round open seasons. (Twenty states now have no closed season.) It never dawns on them when they grow apoplectic over the feathers of a fox-slain grouse that one pair of these birds would glut a covert with 33,000 epidemic plagued descendants in less than six years if Nature did not lop off the surplus.

Similarly, having been taught since the days of Aesop that R. Fox is President, Secretary, and Treasurer of Cunning, Inc., it is almost impossible to make them believe that this same four-footed genius can sometimes be enticed within gun range by simply squatting behind a haystack and making a noise like a field mouse beating his wife. Even seasoned outdoorsmen are unaware of many facts of fox lore. They may know that he mates for life; that he sleeps in the open all winter; that he has a bigger bump of curiosity than a two-headed cat in a fish market; that his pelt is prime when the guard hairs are full length, of deepest color, and set in the hide; that he invariably leaves his tracks in a straight line.

But they do not know that the tracks are straight because the maker is narrow-chested, or that he is built that way to get the maximum of agility. They do not know that the primeness of his pelt is probably due, not to temperature, but to light intensity, specifically to the light received through the eyes, and the light of the previous spring at that. Vulpes fulva is a curious concoction, a sort of flea-bitten Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He thinks he owns the woods, spends most of his time trying to give someone a vulpine hotfoot, and glories in his reputation as a scoundrel. He resents friendship and repays hospitality with rudeness just for the fun of being ornery. His exemplary acts he does his best to hide. Take his voice for example. He has a normal bark somewhat like a Pekingese with a Harvard accent, ending in a drawn out burr as though the animal had suddenly been transferred to Yale. But if he thinks anyone is listening he switches over to a number that sounds like two tomcats tied together by the tails and hung over a clothes line.

What is to become of him? The Devil only knows, and he probably would not bet on it.

By: davidbunch

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