I am a Red Fox

This is an excerpt from a collection of essays by a good friend of mine who is a red fox.

Imagine that you come home from work to find a letter stuck to your door with a knife - This is my house now. The Vixen’s scent outside my den meant as much. Some of you might not think it so bad to be followed by a female of your own species, but you should probably read the first line again. The Vixen stood a head taller than me and liked fighting a lot more than I did. Every change of season she got tired of my old territory and came to take my new one.

Moving is always better than fighting. It’s not all that hard. If an intruder confronts me directly, I just exit my den in the back. No other fox has figured out that I build my dens with a secret exit. I put my ears down and gather my only treasure. Beneath a camouflaging layer of dirt, a metal lunchbox with a picture of ducks protects the greatest book ever written, a dogeared paperback entitled 101 Uses for Toothpaste by Peter Sachs.

The Little Libraries that dot the territories of humans have been the one constant in my chaotic life. For me, each one is a religious icon - a wooden box of knowledge, resplendent in pastel colors, perched high on a pedestal of truth.

“Take a book, leave a book” symbolizes a generosity that humans take for granted, one I may never understand. Each visit, I stand on my hind legs and carefully pull open the glass door with one paw. With my teeth I withdraw a tome and lower it to the ground to navigate through the pages with deft paws before closing and returning it with tender care.

The Little Library strained my understanding, but the toothpaste book shattered it.

The way I grew up, each thing had one purpose. Scent marked territory. Fur keeps you warm. Eat rabbits. Foxes are for making more foxes.

Toothpaste did so many things I couldn’t even remember them all by the time I’d finished reading. I flipped back to the beginning and read it all again, and the endless possibilities opened new worlds in my mind.

For the first time, I took the library up on half of its offer: I took a book. Not knowing how I could, I promised myself that I would some day follow through with my end of the bargain.

The Vixen had picked a nasty stretch of weather to roust me this time. Cold wind whipped at my fur as I approached the yellow and sky-blue little library. A small black book caught my attention, but when I withdrew it, pinned it to the ground, and pulled it open, I was awestruck - it was empty.

My only experience of books was reading. If someone had told me that Peter Sachs stole his masterpiece from the lair of a great book-laying bird, I would have raided every nest I found for a chance to pay my debt to the Little Library.

I whined and sniffed at the book, pawing through each page to confirm that it contained nothing but rows of straight lines. The mystery piqued my interest, so I placed it in my lunchbox, bringing my treasures to two.

For clues, I crept around the edges of human territories. Sitting in a metal chair, a woman clutched a purple stick in her hand, dragging it across the page of a big yellow book.

Then I saw it. From her stick flowed letters, which formed into words. “Oranges,” she wrote. “Milk.” “Good bread.” Before my eyes, the miracle of creation lay bare. Books were not found, they were made.

Take a stick, leave a stick. When the woman left the table, I snatched her purple plastic stick away and left a brown one I had found on the ground in its place.

Stick in mouth, notebook under paws, I set to work. In the space under a porch that served as my makeshift den, I spent four days writing.

Letter by letter, taking breaks when my mouth got too tired to draw straight lines or when I needed to hunt for more food, I copied down all of 101 Uses for Toothpaste.

I had an idea of my own that I had always thought should be in the book, "You can roll in it to camouflage your scent from prey. A rabbit will bolt at the smell of a fox, but no one fears attack by minty freshness." I had never encountered toothpaste in real life, so this was a guess. Nevertheless, I added it to my book and made it my own. I titled my work 102 Uses for Toothpaste by Red Fox.

I looked down at my art and grinned. I was an author. Unable to contain my enthusiasm, I leapt into the air and sprinted to the Little Library, my life’s most precious possessions jangling from the lunchbox handle secure in my jaws. I paid my debt and returned my brand new book to be found by the next lucky soul.

That night, too full of energy to sleep, I spent the time seeking my next hunting ground. Just as day broke, I bolted back to the little library. It looked the same yellow and sky blue as always. I removed my little black book and flipped through the pages. Had anyone even read it? I lifted it in my mouth and placed it delicately back in the box. I would just need to be patient.

Weeks passed. I found a new hunting ground across the street from a building with a duck on the sign. "Gem of Peking," it said. The garbage went out the same time every day, so I didn't go hungry. Days when it was clear, I confirmed my book remained untouched.

One frigid morning, I lay curled up, wondering whether there was any point in continuing to disappoint myself. Grumbling, I unrolled and trudged to the free library. For old times sake, I read through all one hundred and two uses once more, and when I reached the end, my jaw fell open. A message was written in slick blue stick, much unlike the grey of my dry purple stick. In big block letters, “WHO IS RED FOX?”

I began to shake. Was I in danger? Should I run away? I yipped a few times and ran in circles around the little library until my heart stopped racing. Then I took my own purple stick in my mouth. “I am Red Fox,” I wrote. “I am a red fox. Do you like my book?”

The next day I had my answer, again in slick blue. “WHY DID YOU WRITE A BOOK ABOUT TOOTHPASTE?”

“Toothpaste is the greatest invention I have encountered.” I answered, “Someday I hope to own my own tube of toothpaste.”

The conversation continued like this, one message a day. “I CAN BUY YOU TOOTHPASTE IF YOU WANT.”

I opened my mouth wide when I read this and scampered underneath a bush. In the darkness I could think. Did I really want a gift of toothpaste from a human? Take a toothpaste, leave a toothpaste. I would owe this mysterious person a toothpaste that I might never be able to give him. No, the key word was “buy.” Take anything, leave money. I would buy myself a tube of toothpaste and owe no one. That was my quest. I took my purple stick in my mouth once more.

“I must buy my toothpaste. How can I earn money?”

“WHAT SKILLS DO YOU HAVE?”

“Hunting, hiding, digging.” I hesitated. “Reading, writing.”

“WRITE SOMETHING FOR ME. I HAVE A BLOG. IF IT GETS TRAFFIC I'LL SHARE THE MONEY."

An extra scrawl, like an afterthought, “NOT YOUR TOOTHPASTE BOOK.”

That stung, but I knew better than to argue with my benefactor. What could I possibly know about that humans would want to read? I didn't even know what a blog was. I started right where the conversation left off and wrote whatever came to mind. I won’t say I didn’t mention toothpaste.

For a long time, my friend said nothing. As time passed, the weather grew warm. Insects crawled in the grass, and I got a welcome change from the sugary chicken and rice I found in the garbage behind Gem of Peking. Days grew longer, and the regular food and comfortable air made me lazy. Although I didn’t forget the little black book, I checked it less often. Each time I did, I felt a little more foolish. Leave a book, take money? That’s not how it works.

In all the excitement, I missed the warning. Maybe a rainstorm got to her scent before I did, but it’s no excuse. I should have known I'd dallied too long. I should have left as soon as the season changed. Before I even smelled anything. But I didn't, and when I came back from hunting one day to find her waiting for me, I had only myself to blame.

The Vixen wore the vicious look that characterized her, but moreso. Usually her scent suggested a grim pleasure in our ritual, but this time she was angry. All the more reason to move on, except now she had more than just my territory. My duck lunchbox, holding my most treasured possession, glinted in the moonlight between her four long legs.

My mouth went dry and I fell to the ground. There was no other option. All I had was the element of surprise. I realized that my den’s secret exit had another use. Maybe I should write a book on uses for fox den secret exits. I nudged away the rock that covered it and crept inside. The moment I entered I saw I had already lost.

101 Uses for Toothpaste by Peter Sachs was spread across my den in at least that many pieces. The Vixen didn’t understand language, but she could send a message. Foxes do not read. I picked up a ragged piece of cover emblazoned “Toot” and fled.

When all is lost, I go to Little Libraries. It is my constant in the chaos. Covered in dirt, sagging with exhaustion, I approached the yellow and sky blue box. I reached my paws up and opened the glass and wood door with my mouth, careful as always not to damage the intricate paintings of flowers and bees. I reached in and pulled out my little black book, and for a time I lost myself in unlimited possibility. Toothpaste can do so much more than just paste teeth.

When I reached the end, I saw my long list of unanswered messages. My friend, what happened to you? I stared, despondent, until I saw it. In the crease of the book was a scrawl in such small script I had to move closer until my snout was nearly touching it. “RED, YOUR STORY WENT VIRAL. EVERYONE WANTS TO BUY YOU TOOTHPASTE. SORRY FOR HIDING THE MESSAGE, I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO STEAL ALL YOUR MONEY. CHECK THE TREE, AND PLEASE WRITE MORE.”

I would love to have been inside the head of a human that sunny morning when a red fox trotted up the street, carrying a MIGHTY DUCKS lunchbox in his jaws. The door to the Walgreens opened for me as I approached, a tacit proclamation of my right to be there. When the pharmacy clerk shouted “Hey, git!” I put down my lunchbox, reached in with one paw and used my teeth to pull out and brandish a $100 bill, earning me a “Sorry, sir, my mistake.”

And would you believe it, I put that toothpaste all over myself, and the rabbits had no idea I was coming. Who knows what else it can do, with the right fox to give it a chance.