Of all the creatures that God created to walk, creep and slither upon His Earth, surely the nosiest, the most insatiably curious, would be Reynard the Fox.
Sunday morning. Glorious. Rounding the bend in the creek and I see something move.
It’s hard to see in this hastily taken phone photo, so I’ll blow it up and crop it a bit.
Yes, that’s old Foxy Loxy calmly trotting out of the gasworks and across the beck. Surprisingly he didn’t see me; in fact, it wasn’t until he scented Jambo on the breeze that he picked up on us at all. Then it was a quick scamper up the banking, a kick of the heels and off into the scrub.
Well, not quite. Old Reynard simply cannot resist a quick look back. Foxes with hound packs at their heels will put a little bit of distance between them and the pack and then stop, look round, check out just how bad things are and then — and only then — bolt onwards.
My fox was no exception to the rule. Like Lot’s wife he couldn’t resist a quick over the shoulder. It’s this last look that hunters rely on: miss with the first barrel and you’ve always got a chance with the second.
It’s a good job for Reynard that my dad wasn’t with me. Bang!