So, the Crack Fox, not to be confused with Keith Lemons Urban Fox, turned up today in my garden. I hate him. He gives me nightmares, acting all ‘street’ and ‘gangstery’ strutting his stuff in my back garden. I spy on him from the window and he just stands there, completely still, staring at me, all ‘wot you lookin at…d’ya want some? Come on then!’ (he’s well ‘ard, he’s got half a tail, which I can only assume he lost in gang fight, I dread to think what happened to his rival) I do realise, of course, that he can’t actually speak, but I know he’s thinking this and I know that if I open the door to chase him away he won’t move, I’ve tried it before, he will pull a knife from somewhere and run at me. I know it.
He leaves poo in the middle of the lawn, he punctures our paddling pools with his raggedy yellow teeth, he steals shoes and leaves them chewed up in the garden, then he watches me from a bush to make sure he sees my reaction when I find them!
He terrorizes the neighborhood and I’m sure the other foxes hate him as much as I do. I see him bossing them about, telling them which shoes to steal, ‘get the little ‘uns new ones, they paid £60 for those innit’. He paces round the garden occasionally looking up to check I’m watching then he scratches all his fleas out or bites his bum for a bit, the way flea ridden animals do, the itchy, scratchy, drug dealing, little shite.
Today is the day.
Revenge will be mine.