After engaging in fox-genocide for centuries, how is it the British have any of
them left? But, perhaps since the British don’t allow themselves to go about
armed, and fox-hunting is frowned upon if not forbidden, foxes are making a
comeback.
Your encounter was not unlike my coyote encounters. I have especially noted
that my pleasant encounters with coyotes is in marked contrast to the dire
warnings I’ve received from emails and Ridgeback forums. “No, no,” I say.
“The coyotes at the river aren’t at all like that. We see them all the time.
They don’t bother us and we don’t bother them.”
“Oh yeah, well my friend Irma’s cousin Agnes was walking her Shitzu just a few
years ago when it would have been attacked if Agnes hadn’t scooped it up, the
Shitzu, not the coyote, and run home with it. Don’t be fooled, they are just
waiting for their chance to attack your dogs.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I think to myself.
Since so many Trolls have moved down to the parts of the river where we
normally hike, the coyotes have for the most part moved elsewhere and the
rabbit population is on the rise. The Trolls incidentally, many of them, have
brought along dogs, and many of them run loose – dogs smaller than Jessica (my
Irish Terrier who is an overweight 45 pounds). I’ve had warnings from Trolls
that other Trolls “on up there to your left someplace,” for example, have
dangerous dogs, but none of them has ever warned me about coyotes.
We have coyote-dog-matings from time to time. We’ve even named them: coydogs.
A few years ago I saw what I took to be two coyotes passing us in the distance,
but in taking a closer looked noticed that they were much larger than the
typical coyote. Of course they may have just been dogs out for a romp – any
chance your fox was not a fox?
Lawrence
From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On ;
Behalf Of profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx
Sent: Sunday, July 15, 2018 2:49 PM
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [lit-ideas] Hereabouts
The hereabouts comes to you this week from a runway at Heathrow airport. We
were scheduled to arrive in Lyon in time to see France win the World Cup.
Instead there's been a announcement that something electrical is broken in
Lyon's air traffic control system, so we pushed away from the gate and here we
sit. I'm between a man who has leaned his seat back to sleep and a someone who
keeps pushing the back of my seat. Ah the adventure that is Travel.
My father and I were finishing sockeye salmon salads in the dining room when we
both heard a thunk. Since his hearing is even worse than mine, it must have
been quite a thunk. Because the weather had been sultry but mosquitoes are
unknown in that part of London, the doors to the garden, one with windows
inset, were open. A young fox appeared, perhaps five feet from where we sat,
attracted by the smell of food. He or she had the mottling you see on Boxer
dogs, black mixed with brown. I wondered if a domestic animal had mated with
the mother. I jumped up, said nothing, gave him or her a look. Since I do non
verbal things with dogs a lot, I'm pretty sure he or she asked, " Is this a bad
time?"
"We're having dinner."
"So not a bad time at all?"
"It is a bad time."
There was no fuss or shouting. He or she ran to the bottom of the garden,
looked back to see if the message had changed or maybe just to say, "No
problem" and disappeared.
To get to my father's house you exit the motorway at Sidcup, a place that is
famous for at least three things. In the First World War a hospital there saw
the beginnings of plastic surgery. People with no nose or jaw were given some
semblance of a replacement. The other association that comes to my mind is the
fellow in Pinter's play "The Caretaker," who has a shed in Sidcup. If he
reaches there, all will be well. He doesn't. Finally of course there's Lord
Sidcup, P.G. Wodehouse's version of Mosley. On Friday we were at the tail end
of a gathering in Trafalgar Square to protest the arrival of someone not unlike
that man.
Hertz sent urgent messages saying that our car up is subject to recall so we
must drive to the nearest location. I phoned customer service to find the
nearest location. "We are open Monday to Friday. " I called the number in the
e mail. Different recording, same message. We looked to the web. I called a
location that Google said was Hertz. Turned out to be "Mildred's Speedy Hire"
or some such outfit. Straight out of Monty Python. "No, we're not Hertz, but
I could do you a car." When we handed the keys over at the airport, the man
asked, "Did you get our call about the recall?" I said something like, "I
tried to give you a call about your call about the recall, but no one answers
the phone on weekends!"
They looked as sheepish as a fox that's been denied dinner. Which isn't very
sheepish at all.
Postscript: I do not recommend landing in a country that is winning the World
Cup. The baggage handlers found an electronic problem that prevented them from
working before the match finished. Getting our bags took over an hour. We
then got on the express train to the center of town, got off where the Mighty
Google suggested, transferred to the Metro, which lurched to a halt after one
stop. There had been a fight and so they closed down the entire system. Tried
to get a taxi or Uber. Ha! Got on a bus. People letting off fireworks on the
street ; the police drove sedately around. Short version: thirty minute
journey took more than three hours. Ils sont fous ses Francais!
David Ritchie,
British Expeditionary Force,
Headed for France
