The stunningly handsome
“Dash”, hero of this garden and its environs, is a proud Dad. The Rebel is a cute bundle of fox fur,
cinnamon in colour, and he first came to our attention two weeks ago. This means he is about seven weeks old, and
is full of vim, vigour and mischief.
Daddy Dash has had to chase after him across the lawn, cuff him with a
gentle paw and the prod of a nose in the side to return him to the den. As he slowly loses his “cub” face and his
“fox” face emerges from the fluff, I have a vision of him, red and white
spotted kerchief tied to a stick thrown over his shoulder. Off with him on many
great adventures.
Yesterday, as he sunned himself
on what we now term the nursery rock; devious thoughts of escape no doubt
running through his foxy brain, a second smaller cub tentatively put a paw and
cute little face out of the den and came to join The Rebel. I don’t know if The Rebel is dog or vixen
yet. We have named the sibling
“Cautious”.
Cautious is much more
nervous, and a short bark from Mother, Miss Pretty, had he/her race back into
the shelter of the cotoneaster; meanwhile The Rebel groomed himself/herself
meticulously, sneered over a small shoulder at Cautious, stretched in leisurely
fashion and sauntered back to the den.
We await, with interest, the development of this stunning pair. Cautious is more russet in colour and her/his
face is still cub-like. Both have
inherited Daddy’s white tipped tail.
Last year’s cubs, three of
them, were not a success. One died
within weeks of showing himself, one left home for pastures new and the other
emigrated for a while to a nearby hill and returned with mange. Copious quantities of blue mouldy bread
thrown out to him appears to have cured the mange. Nothing like raw penicillin to do the
job. He is horrible to behold in looks,
but at least his fur has regrown. We
haven’t seen him around for the past few weeks and I think Daddy Dash has warned
him off. There is no doubting Dash is a
protective father, he ran into the midst of fourteen Grey Crows the other day
when he thought they had The Rebel in their sights.
In WWII, or The Emergency as
it was referred to here, the Luftwaffe was industrious in its determination to
sink the mail boats coming across from England, and to that end Dublin Bay was
targeted on a regular basis. The North
Strand area of Dublin took a direct hit and much damage was done. With typical Irish phlegmatism the attitude
was one of “arrah sure! It could have been worse!” amongst Dubliners.
My Mother used to tell me of
nights when my Grandmother would take my Uncle and Mum out of the house and
away across the fields to the shelter of a cowshed. My Grandmother was terrified that the planes
flying overhead would drop a bomb by mistake, as they flew overhead, on their
way to bomb the mail boats.
One evening last week I
thought of my Grandmother as many planes flew in over the house. Irish citizens were returning from all over
the world to cast their vote in the Marriage Equality referendum. At one stage last Thursday night one could be
forgiven for thinking there was an armada of airplanes overhead.
I moved a garden chair to a
newly cleared part of the garden which has a view over the Bay. Inspired to do so by having to stand in a
bitter wind [this is May right?] admiring the Queen Elizabeth 2 in all her
stately nautical glory recently. As she
lay at anchor in the Bay, every available hill, road with a view and even some
private lanes, were traversed in order to catch the best photo. One lady arrived at my gate and asked could
she go up onto our roof, was there any part of it flat enough for her to stand
on and take a “leeeetle picky”. Her
resemblance to Miss Map notwithstanding, I declined access – we don’t have a
flat roof – and she told me she was very disappointed in me. People never cease to amaze me.
My newly placed chair is in
a cleft in the rocks, sheltered from wind and sun, cosy and an old childhood
haunt. In our youth, my pals and I hid
here while we decided who was a Cowboy, which of us were Red Indians and
whether we were cattle rustling, robbing the stage coach, or even rescuing the
stage coach from “The Baddies”.
In the intervening years
since The Lone Ranger, Wild Mikey and The Sun up Kid and I moseyed along to our
hidey hole, a rowan tree has taken root at the entrance to our special
area. In full bloom at the moment, it
has a smell reminiscent of almonds and horse stables. If we get any sort of a summer without snow
in it, the lap top and I shall be seeking inspiration out there. Flask of tea and ice top buns, gluten free
naturally, will be the order of the day.
Mum's thinking post
3 comments:
Irish Eyes, how can I tell you how much I've enjoyed reading this post with its marvelous observations on so many matters.
You continue to give me a new appreciation of foxes.
I cannot believe the nerve of the woman who wished to take pickies from the vantage point of your roof. Gracious!
Hoping to see another post from you while the month of June is still young. xo
Ah, there are so many lovely threads in this tapestry of a post - if it wasn't for the drop of water between us, I'd be round with a cake so you could tell me more. And maybe we'd get a glimpse of the little family in your garden. I did laugh about the 'photographer' who was disappointed in you! What a cheek!! Horrid, cold, windy day here! All best, Cx
I am enjoying the saga of the foxes, it must be wonderful to watch them go about their business.
Diana
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