Why Did the Fox Come to Breakfast?

In Dr. Paul Hessert’s dogmatics classes, so long ago now, there was the day he talked about miracles. What he said was something like this. “The way to understand if a miracle occurred is not to investigate the magic but to observe what happens in the hearts and ongoing lives of those who were there.”

…

You’re a nice adult. Life gave you work, partners, kids, pets, passions and idiosyncrasies, too much to do and not enough time to do it in. And then, while you were swimming through it all, life eddied in a way that surprised you. Life kept flowing but more slowly, until, in what seemed like five minutes or maybe six years ago, here you are now in your quiet, beautiful place; astonished at how quickly it all happened. Now you have weirdly new feelings that sneak in behind you. Wistfulness, hunger, irritation, longing. You still join, still learn, still take care of others and yourself. But this is different and you are often as unsettled as when you were fifteen.

…

It was early in June and my backyard was fluffy with new leaves, blushing peonies in their impossible petticoats, riffling flags of lavender and purple irises. Which is probably why, at first I didn’t notice the fox. I was stirring my blueberry oatmeal while staring out the kitchen window. I have favorite songs that I stream in the background of my life and right then Mahalia Jackson was crooning If I Can Help Somebody. 

Suddenly, I realized I was staring at a red fox sitting in the exact middle of my yard. And strangely, the fox was staring back at me. It was perfectly upright, its cinnamon fur glowed beautifully, its white ears glistened, its black socks were neatly pulled up. But I was startled. Foxes are clandestine; they don’t lollygag in backyards. 

I turned the oatmeal low, covered it, then went to my back door and opened it. Through the screen door the fox was gazing at me with its intelligent amber eyes. It didn’t appear hurt, sick, or mangy. It was simply a creature with ears cocked towards me and my house, listening to Mahalia’s deep voice in my kitchen behind me. 

You may question why I did this next thing but you weren’t there. I opened my screen door as the fox tilted it’s head. It stood up and walked to me and then the fox walked into my kitchen. It looked around, sniffed, and sat down in the middle of my tile floor.

We studied each other. 

“Um. Would like some breakfast?”

It blinked. 

I understood that it made no sense to have a fox in my house. I should probably worry about rabies or that disease where brains turn to mush. But you weren’t there. The fox’s fur shimmered. It smelled healthy-funky-earthy the way wild animals do. It was calm and alert, listening, watching, sniffing. 

I kept talking though quite quietly. “You know, I’ve known some great folks but I’ve never personally known a fox. Are you feeling okay?”

It stared at me, tilted its head again as if to remind me it didn’t know English so I should keep it simple. Mahalia ended her song. The tinkling glass notes of Dragon Lullaby suddenly fell into the room, as soft and fresh as light rain. The fox looked around as if trying to find the rainy woods.

What could I do? I opened my refrigerator to pull out eggs and bacon. I moved the oatmeal off the burner and put the fry pan in its place because good hosts can stir up last minute scrambled eggs. 

While the eggs cooked I buttered saltines and put them on a small plate. I dished a small plate with half the scrambled eggs. Then a pit together a third dish of the eggs and the bacon. I stopped a moment, smiled, and added half my blueberry oatmeal. 

I set the cracker plate on the floor. The fox stood to move to the plate. As it crunched and smacked, crumbs fell from side of its mouth. 

I put the first plate of eggs in the open doorway. The fox swallowed them quickly, then looked up at me as Leonard Cohen’s Yiddish Dance Me to The End of Love spun up into the air. It’s a hard, gorgeous, sad song about good love that is going and is then gone. I walked down my steps to the place in the lawn where this had begun. I set down the last platter of eggs, bacon, and oatmeal. The fox took it’s time biting, pulling up chunks to chew, licking its lips, then eating more. When everything was gone, I saw blueberry stains on its white chin. 

That’s when the fox trotted away; its fluffy tail disappeared under the peony. A moment later the fox reappeared. I was on the top steps when the fox walked back to me with something in its mouth. 

It dipped its head to drop a tiny wriggling lump at my feet. Which meowed. A tiny kitten, eyes barely open, whimpered.

I laughed a little, “You’re kidding? You were checking me out for kitten mothering?”

The fox blinked, went back to the peony bush, and brought me another kitten. I crouched to pick up the second baby to hold against my heart, next to its sibling.

The fox stood, watched the kittens, looked up at me and then, I swear, it leaned forward to touch my hand with its delicate muzzle.

Tears came into my eyes as the fox finally turned to walk out of my yard.

Well, I did the things you do with foundling kittens. A quick and expensive vet trip. Baskets and heating pads. Round the clock feedings.

A few friends came over more often to visit and help with Romulus and Remus. My granddaughter, who is perfectly eleven, came for a whole week that June to help me with the kittens.

These days the fox sometimes comes around once in a while to rest in my yard and I make it scrambled eggs or blueberry oatmeal.

 Somehow, I am less wistful, less longing, more confident that my life counts to others and to myself as fully as it ever did. I still belong to the earth and I guess, it still belongs to me. Things still happen. One has to pay attention.