Commentary: The fox and me

It had rained hard that early morning before I started out for work. The droplets of water hanging from limb and blade sparkled in the sunrise that broke through the heavy clouds.

From my car window I caught the dark form of an animal sitting by the side of the road.

Curious, I turned the car around to find some sort of critter, dripping wet, just sitting by the road trying to figure out how to dry out his world. Was it a dog, a cat, a big rat? It was hard to tell. I rolled down the window and our eyes met.

Aha! “Good morning, Mr. Fox,” I said, sounding like a faux Mr. Rogers. We stared at each other for awhile then shared a slow journey down the road. Mr. Fox walked. I drove.

Mr. Fox disappeared under a small bridge.

For just a fleeting few moments it seemed that the two of us broke through the inborn distrust between fox and human: He didn’t ask about guns; I didn’t bring up chickens. And it was rather grand.

Two years later - same spot - same fox (?) we met again. This time a fluffy, beautiful, red fox stared at me as I rolled down the window and began to talk. Did he remember me, that he was willing to stare and listen for perhaps two minutes? Had we formed some sort of bond two years ago? Would this moment happen again? I guess I’d like to think so.

Trust. What an illusive, wonderful, God-thing it is to know and experience. When you trust me and I trust you, what a wonderful world it is.

Trust. So difficult to build and so extraordinarily easy to destroy! I didn’t see Mr. Fox by the road today - maybe tomorrow. I trust so.

Glad we could get together.