Foxes came from somewhere to raid Granny’s chickens, and Granpa would sit out there for hours with the 22 but to my knowledge never did more than amuse them.
The first batch we were personally aware of were born under an old grainery at Ervin and Janice’s.
Later, when we no longer had chickens, a mother fox had her cubs over at the main farm. One day she didn’t come back, and the little foxes were not only hungry, but lonely as well.
Jason, who loved all things little and furry, began to leave them scraps of food, and they became tame enough to take it from his hand, and once took a drumstick from one end while he held the other in his mouth.
They would appear when we picked raspberries, and I would sometimes bring along a pocketful of dog food. They refused to come when we called, but would eventually appear, adorably shy, and when I offered food they would creep closer, very cautiously. Whiskers would fold back, and lips would curl so that only teeth showed. They hated to touch our skin, and would pick the morsel of food ever so gently with those sharp little teeth. If I ran out of dog food I could offer raspberries, and eventually they would curl up somewhere nearby and sleep while I picked.
The day we had a family reunion, the cousins from the city were impressed by two things; all the raspberries they could eat, and the foxes. Soon the cousins would nip a bit of garlic sausage off the buffet table to feed the foxes, and before long the little beasts were charmed to the point of following them around the yard.