The Fox

Joad sat watching Abe jump over and over again. The silly little dog found this activity captivating as it was annoying. Abe wore a jet-black body and little gray spots along his snout, and on his tail, a splotch of white sat on the tip like a paintbrush of fur.  The dog wore a happy, careless grin. He leaped furiously at a bluebird nest high in an old tree but jumped all the same. Every time he landed, he crushed a patch of young sunflowers. Joad didn't remember those being there; he didn't plant them, or if he had, he certainly hadn't cared. Abe didn't pay them any attention, continuing his pointless game. Joad watched from his kitchen window in mild amusement while his coffee brewed. Big, great clouds dotted the bluejay sky, and the sun rose high and bright. It cast downward a special warmth, a great feeling. 

 His coffee was an angry, awful thing; he dropped it, and it shattered onto the hardwood floor in a flood of scalding brown and ceramic. It hurt him, and so he broke it. He swept the pieces, stopped the liquid, and set about another. This time, he took care to steep and cool it so it did not hurt him, and he did not break it. He blew and then drank; he always had to learn from doing, and that was his issue. To learn to be steady, he had to fall first, if only falling didn't hurt so much. And learning wasn't so costly.

 Abe had moved on from the nest and instead transfixed on a special project of his: habitually digging a hole aside the white picket fence and two wonderful old orchid patches Joad had put up and planted three years earlier. No matter how many times Joad filled it in, he already dug anew, so much so that his shovel was busted and jank. It sat sunk in the backyard like a crude grave of a veteran. Its wood was cracked and splintered. Its metal was old and garish. He made a mental note to buy one later.

 Abe dug furiously, like if he dug further and deeper, he would find something, maybe something to eat, something he wanted, something he needed. Abe avoided each flower and each fencepost. He dug in between the patches with rare skill. Abe had been much smaller when Joad had set about building the fence. He could remember what it was like without the fence and the flowers; it was wild and untamed. Joad couldn't remember a time without Abe. But he remembered what the grass had looked like without the fence, and he remembered planting the flower bulbs, egg-shaped and hard. You would hardly think they were anything special at all. It had been warm then, quiet and warm. Abe kept digging. He must want to see the smells. He must want to smell the things he can smell. Overhead, Mother bluebird returned to her nest with a long worm. Her babes loved her more than ever. It was warm like only summer could be. He jangled the small adornment on the leather leash, branded “From Mary, Love Abe.” It was worn and loved. It smelled like home. It was the greatest thing Joad owned. The sun was lovely and perched. It was a good day for a walk. 

The road was empty and clear. All along it, evergreen hedges lined and shaped the quiet little neighborhood like leafy veins, giving life to pockets of family. Abe pulled as they left and did not stop pulling. Abe insisted on smelling every flower, every marking sign, and every endlessly attracting fire hydrant. Joad and Abe made a cyclical loop three times, each time stopping at the familiar favorite spots, the wonderful patch of wildflowers three houses down from home, the blues and red, and all the pretty colors. Right at the end of the loop, there is a sign pointing home that has been urinated on by all manner of animals, almost a ritual to relief. With each loop, Joad became more attuned to his surroundings, and time started to drift away, only warmth and clean air. Abe seemed to focus only on the smells of the flowers and the bushes. He didn't pick his head up like a big weight was pushing his snout downward. 

On the last stretch of the fourth loop, Joad saw the fox, and the fox saw Joad. Abe was too busy with his smells to see the sight next to him. The fox wore warped black circles on its furrowed slits of eyes. Its fur was dirty and matted, its feet worn and scruffy. It looked like a dream of a fox, not yet rendered. Joad stood and watched the fox. It didn't move or make a noise. It almost looked like a statue. Abe kept on smelling; he was attending to a particularly perfumy patch of cream-colored lilies. Joad tightened his grip on the leather lead. Slowly, he raised his hand and made a crude. Imitation of a pistol, he pointed his index and thumb at the fox. Without another word, he made a swift motion, making a popping noise with his mouth. His pointer finger rose and then fell to his side. The fox started, blinked once, then turned and brushed past a thick bush of marigolds. Joad stared at the bush and the flowers, and then he and Abe made one more lap. Joad didn't see the fox again, but somewhere, it was sulking, watching him with two focused lightless eyes. 

Abe returned triumphant back to his hole. He commenced his great project and made about as much progress as he usually did. Joad stared at the sad, downtrodden shovel planted firmly in the backyard grass.  It was rusted and worn, and its once fine tip ground into a mess of chipped pieces and gnarled, unsightly teeth. Abe had kept it occupied.

 He went inside and grabbed his keys from the white clay dish with a funny little scene painted on it. It was a fox and a dog, each chasing the tail of the other. The bottom read in red lettering, “We pair of beasts, I love you still.” She had always had a way with words. The kitchen smelled like coffee still. He had swept and scrubbed but it still smelt like coffee. He kicked a little dirt into the deepening hole. It didn't do much. He drove off without another thought.

 Abe jumped up and down again. Mother bluebird had returned to Abe's joy, and with each jump, Abe crushed more of the newborn sunflowers. The sun was rising high still. The kitchen smelled like coffee, and Abe did not stop jumping. It smelled good and clean like only summer could provide.

Joad was gone a long time. The sun washed low. Abe missed Joad very much. Mother Bluebird was silent and comfortable, no longer harassed. Abe dug deep and hard. His back piles raked again and again. His paws became black with brown and then brown together. Loose dirt spilled behind him, and the fence and the earth came undone. Abe felt hungry. He took deep breaths and was hungry still. The more air he ate and dirt he scrabbled, he was hungrier still. 

The sun was red when Joad got back. Red and orange. It looked like half a blood orange being swallowed by the ground. The white picket fence looked like bars on a window. Red blazes shot through the slats. Joad and the new shovel came back home. The patterned grass was interrupted by a shallow divot in the ground. It ran under the fence and out past it. There was just enough space between the ground and the fence that something could eke out from under it. A trail of muddy paws led from the escape. Abe was never one to quit. 

Joad, with shovel in hand, followed them along the trail Abe and he took. They trailed from flower to flower, from bush to signpost. He followed the path of feet, and he remembered. He remembered the bush, the fox, and the marigolds. He stopped following the path, he knew where it ended.

There was blood on the flowers. The orange was mixed with crimson-red droplets. He walked past it and down a shallow alley.  Splashes of red here and there, and it became more and more as he walked. His grip tightened on the shovel. Its markings and store labels were still on it. The air stopped still, and the wind shuttered. Beyond the alley, beyond the bush and the fence, there was Abe.

He was smiling. His teeth were bright, his gums dark red. His jowls flapped sickly at ease. Below his face, his dark fur was muddled and torn. He looked happy, happy like a skeleton smiles. He looked hungry. Joad stared further and saw the fox. Its teeth were bared, and its fur was torn and manged. It backed up protectively, like a final guard at a great palace. He smashed it over the head with the shovel once. And the shovel was not new anymore. Instinctively, he hit it as hard as he could muster, as hard as he could feel. It fell without a sound. It didn't move. It died like an animal. It did not get back up. It had hurt him. It did not know it or mean to. It couldn't, it couldnt know, how was it supposed to. But it hurt him, and so it was to die. He stared at it. It looked sad, it looked like it was already a part of the ground again. It looked like it had never lived at all.

A foot from Abe and the fox, there was a nest. Two kits sat nestled and young. Their eyes had not opened yet. All they could do was mewl into the world. They hardly knew they were alive. Abe had known, and he died for knowing. He died for being an animal. The fox had died because it knew. It died because of Joad. 

Joad stared at them for a long while. They would die out here. They would surely die. He was their murderer. He was their great doom. Before life had started, he had ended it. What was he, and what were they. Things that would never be and things that never were.

He dug two graves. He put Abe in first, taking his collar and then placing him gently inside. Abe lay there still, still and smiling. Gently, he covered his love with dirt, his great beast of love. He packed the dirt hard on the grave. He buried the fox as well. Its teeth were showing, but it did not smile. 

What was this. He looked at the graves, side by side, and next to them, the young life. The sun was gone now, and only Joad, the moon, and the stars were left. If he left, they would die. If he stayed, they would die as well. That's what things did, what beasts do. That's all they did. They lived, and then they died. For what purpose was it to love them.

He would save them, even if for the sentiment. She would have wanted it. She would have insisted on it. To her, they were not beasts. To her, they were only animals. Animals deserving of love. No less deserving than he was. He was worse, yes. Yes, he was worse. Maybe there was no other worse than he. Maybe there was no reason to try any longer. But he would do it for her. She would like that. She loved the sentiment of all of it. So he loved it as well.

He scooped the pups up with his jacket and carried them back home, completing the old cycle once more. He made them a place out of Abe's bed and some newspapers. He fed them milk and some dog food he wouldn't ever use again. They slept soundly. They hardly made a sound. He wished he cared for them, but he was the reason for their demise, and they were the reason for his. He called a shelter and made plans for the morning.

The house was quiet, quiet except for the calling of orphans. Joad sat at the kitchen counter. It still smelled like coffee. He poured a glass of whiskey into a mug. It read on its front, “Do unto others…” He did not like it, but she had made it. And it was his gift, so he enjoyed it greatly. He poured himself another glass. And then another. And still another.

Joad sat there until the sun came back, and in the morning, he drove to a shelter, and in the afternoon, he filled the hole. He packed the earth tightly.  He buried the collar with it. He went to bed that night. The house was silent. He cried from great wells. With no noise, no animal wail, no frightful feeble yelp. The fox had hurt him, hurt his memory, hurt her, and so it was to die. That was the way things were. That's the way things always had been. That was his issue. To learn, he had to lose. And he learned. He was learning always, it seemed.