Beware of Foxes

Night. Moonlight. The sound of padded paws on soft, pale grass.

A skulk of foxes, wagging their tails like friendly puppies, emerges from the brush. They come right up to me, as if we've met before.

Could they be tame?

A voice echoes in my dream as it has for the last three nights:

They are not smiling

They are merely

Showing their teeth.

There is a certain look in their eyes. A gleam reminding me of someone, somewhere.

I feel a shudder, not knowing if to hide or to run.

They are not neighborhood dogs, I tell myself. They are definitely not domesticated.

Yet one stands on his hind legs, puts his paws on my shoulders, and licks my face.

The shock awakens me, and a voice in my head continues:

They are not smiling

They are merely

Showing their teeth.

Breakfast time is quiet as I sit with my aging father.

I tell him about the recurring dream.

What could it mean? Foxes, wild animals? Do they symbolize something?

He replies in a manner so simple it stuns.

They represent people.

People! How could it be that I hadn't seen it before?

It started in the office.

I noticed things that made me uncomfortable. Computers shutting quickly when I entered the room. Whispering. Papers missing.

I ignored my doubts, afraid of trouble.

I didn't want to make a fuss.

Days pass by, and I dream again.

This time, a new voice echoes when I awaken with a lick on my face:

Beware of foxes

And those who believe

They are tame.

My doubts and suspicions prove true.

Power, money, prestige: (Why is it always the same?)

They stop at nothing to get what they want.

It starts subtly and slowly: fake emails, forged signatures, altered accounts.

Then come the false rumors, putting blame on others.

The sly foxes of children's stories return to my mind.

Ancestral symbols come to us in the dark, in our dreams.

Are not dreams born in the same place as fairy tales?

Beware of foxes

And those who believe

They are tame.

Coworkers have suspicions and, like me, want to turn away.

I never planned to be a whistleblower.

The tarot cards drop in my lap.

Then I know what I have to do.

Whistle. Blow the whistle loud and long. It falls to me to tell all.

I report everything I had seen in brazen detail. I gather evidence—false records, fake signatures, a rigged election of board members—and I find witnesses.

I tell it over and over again until the authorities responded.

Investigations follow. Commissions are appointed. Testimonies were given, leading to forced resignations.

"How could this be?" mourn the young volunteers, dismayed and disheartened. "We are a nonprofit."

Disillusionment is a heavy burden to carry, no matter your age.

It takes months of recovery, restless nights, and new dreams.

Keep your distance

And forge new paths.

Knights ride on white horses now in my dreams, carrying shields and shiny swords.

Archetypes take new forms on a chess board only I can play.

Keep your distance

And forge new paths.

A king. A queen. Noble white horses. Defenders of justice.

They ride now and forevermore into the dark night, protecting those who journey, singing softly in the shadows:

Beware of foxes

And those who believe

They are tame.

****

Based on true events, real dreams, and a non-profit.