We had a night of it, my daughter and I, with the foxes screaming
outside. I had to stroke her fur and hold her close all night. She
snuggled up, her wet nose against my neck. Every time they howled,
she’d startle and raise her ears. I could feel the pulse of her heart beat
on my chest, strong and fast. Strange how eerie the foxes sounded to
me; I didn’t compare my daughter’s noises to theirs. Moonlight came
in through our bedroom window; the night outside seemed still and
slow, except for the cries of the foxes. It must have been at least three
in the morning before we both fell into a deep sleep, her paw resting
gently on my shoulder. In my dream I dreamt of being a fox myself, of
the two of us running through the forest, our red bushy tails flickering
through the dark trees, our noses sniffing rain in the autumn air.
In the morning I sat her in her wooden high chair and she watched
me busy myself around the kitchen. I gave her a fresh bowl of water
and a raw egg. She cracked the shell herself and slurped the yellow
yoke in one gulp. I could tell she was still a little drowsy. She was
breathing peacefully and slowly, her little red chest rising and falling.
Her eyes literally followed me from counter to counter to cupboard, out
into the hall to pick up the post from the raffia mat and back again. I
poured her a bowl of muesli and put some fresh blueberries in it. She
enjoys that. Nobody tells you how flattering it is, how loved you feel,
your child following your every move like that. Her beady eyes watched
me open my post as if it was the most interesting thing anybody could
do. The post was dull as usual, a gas bill and junk. I sighed, went to
the kitchen bin and threw everything in but the bill. When I turned back
around, there she still was, smiling at me, her fur curling around her
mouth. Her eyes lit up, fierce with love. When she looked at me from
those deep dark eyes of hers, straight at me and through me, I felt
more understood than I have ever felt from any look by anybody.