foxes and cats

"I just saw the fox!"  Deborah and I were reading the morning paper and drinking coffee early on a Saturday morning.  She looked up too late.  The little gray fox trotted behind the ornamental fence at the edge of the meadow that is our backyard and disappeared behind the huge "cattle drive" prickly pear.  During the 1930's drought, cattle had been driven up the dirt roads from the Stockton Plateau and Pecos River Valley to be put on trains headed for greener pastures.  After singing off their needles with flamethrowers, prickly pear was hauled in trucks so the cows could have something in their bellies at each bedding ground.  Every 15 miles or so, a person can find an area now choked with prickly pear, proof of those cattle drives.

At daybreak the Friday after Thanksgiving, I saw the fox sprint across the driveway as I drove down to the county road to get our morning paper.  He scampered out of the holy sage that covers the septic tank's drain field, jumped over the railroad tie fence along the trail leading to The Crone's Cottage, and darted in front of the truck not more than fifteen feet away.  When we retire, the Crone's Cottage will be Gone Native’s gift shop, but that is still years in the future.  As the fox passed in front of my truck, he "put it in a lower gear" and kicked up dust with his churning paws.  He did not break stride until he reached the mesquite thicket beyond the reclaimed prairie surrounding the arboretum, where he skidded to a stop and peered at me from behind another prickly pear.

We had not seen the fox for months.  Normally, after the young of the year are weaned in July, a fox takes up residence on the lattice roof of the "Llanero Cantina," our outdoor barbecue/dining area.  For years we have enjoyed the companionship of foxes -- when we come outside to enjoy a leisurely brunch, the fox in residence merely peers down at us, yawns, covers his nose with his tail again and goes back to sleep.  During one apple-bobbing, piñata-bashing, face-painting, pumpkin carving harvest celebration, our guests were amused when the fox came down and trotted off a ways to take care of a natural urge, before returning to its rooftop slumbers.  Gray foxes are the only canine in the world that can climb like a cat.

I stood up to pour a little more coffee but was drawn back to the dining table when Deborah noticed that Mindy, our 15 pound male cat, had been toying with a big packrat behind the stones of the fire pit.  Cats like to play with their catch, and when the rat started to scurry away he leapt with front paws together and back arched to pin it yet again.  When it did not move, he stepped back, and swatted it with a paw.

The fox reappeared along the trail behind the prickly pear.  "There's the fox again!  Isn’t he pretty?  I love the red highlights on his sides."  Deborah admired aloud.  The fox stood watching Mindy, who acknowledged him with a brief glance, and then swatted the rat again.  When the rat started to run, he grabbed it again.  The fox sat down, intently watching Mindy.  Mindy sprawled out, holding the rat down, and sniffed along its body.

"Look at that, the fox is getting comfortable!"  Deborah and I looked at each other, and said "WOW!" in unison.  The fox laid down in its little curled posture so familiar from the shade structure rooftop.  Mindy found the perfect spot to administer the coup-de-grace and bit down.

"Why is the fox behaving in such a way?  Does he think he will get the leavings, or does he figure Mindy will get bored playing with it and then he can have a turn?  What is going on?"  I love the questions posed by the actions of critters, and as is my wont, I give voice to such questions with the slightest cause.  "How had he known Mindy had the rat?  Had he heard it squealing and returned to learn what all the fuss was about?

"Is the fox going to try to take it away from Mindy?"  Deborah's first concern was for the cat's safety.  She started to say something about Mindy's hunting habits -- I think it was going to be about the indelicate nature of the effects of a predator's tooth and claw, but was interrupted by sudden movements of the fox.  It stood and peered off to the north, and its body language imparting intent wariness.  It took a single step and peered around the pomegranate bush.  Its fur began bristling and its leg muscles tightened.

"What is it nervous about -- what is out there --" I asked, and got an immediate answer.  Deborah had spotted a stray dog coming down the trail from the arroyo storage shed.  The fox took one step to the east, away from the dog, a mid-sized yellow hound, but then doubled back and appeared to be heading for a meeting with the dog.  It had observed the larger canine’s intent, which was to go east on a trail behind the pomegranate.  The fox sprinted as fast as it did the morning after Thanksgiving.  The dog must have heard its movements, and whipped around to give chase to the fox.

As both canines disappeared down the driveway, Mindy dropped his rat and gave chase to both.  He darted out of sight through the double row of Afghan pines and cenizos.  Mindy is either the bravest cat in the world, or the craziest -- we have seen him rush other stray dogs.  "Here comes another dog!"  Deborah's voice betrayed the sudden realization that the cat might not know of the second dog.

"Here's where I take a hand!"  I opened the breezeway door and crossed the flagstone patio in a hurry, leaping over the New Mexico mallows planted along its edge, setting the chiminea to rocking as I accidentally clipped it in my haste.  The second stray dog – a big Chow mix – froze and for a second I thought it would not give way to my "chousing."  But it did, quickly disappearing toward the berm, darting between the greasewood and lecheguilla in its haste.

I stood and looked down the driveway, but saw no sign of the fox or the first dog.  I felt certain the fox had taken to the trees, and figured the cat had too.  I glanced at the roof of the lath house, but did not spot him, not even when I checked the big tooth maple, the cottonwood, the goldenball leadtree, and the Texas hawthorn.  The first dog suddenly appeared back on the arroyo-shed trail, steadily trotting in the direction of the other dog.  I kept looking for the cat and the fox, but had no luck in spotting either.  After scratching my head for a moment, I returned to the house, to my coffee and the paper.  Deborah and I had just gotten comfortable when Mindy returned to his rat.  We all nibbled away at our breakfasts, enjoying the sunshiny morning.

Deborah glanced up after a few minutes.  "Mindy is covering the rat."  The cat stretched as long as his body would allow after raking old grass stems over the rat's remains, and then wandered out to the trail along the barbed wire fence, looking off to the north.  After a few minutes of observation, he came to the house to be let in, to get a big drink of water, and to have a dessert of dried cat food.  "Did you leave the rest of the rat for the fox?" we asked.  In answer we were blessed by loud purring, something Mindy almost never does.