In the heart of New England, amidst the familiar tapestry of rolling hills and dense woodlands, a subtle truth often goes unnoticed by the casual observer. While the vibrant flash of the red fox is a common sight, these creatures are, in fact, relative newcomers to the region, their lineage tracing back to European introductions for the thrill of the chase. The true native of these Vermont lands, the original inhabitant of its shadowed forests and sun-dappled meadows, is the more unassuming, yet equally cunning, gray fox.
Our story centers on one such gray fox, a creature of modest means and simple tastes. His abode was nestled within the weathered remains of an ancient maple tree, a hollowed-out stump that had long surrendered to the relentless march of time and gravity. It wasn't a grand estate by any stretch of the imagination – rather plain, undeniably humble, and on the smaller side. Yet, for this particular gray fox, this unassuming maple stump served as a perfectly adequate dwelling, offering a modicum of shelter from the vagaries of the elements and a reasonable degree of safety from the unseen dangers that lurked in the surrounding wilderness.
This little gray fox had carved out a relatively stable existence for himself on the fringes of our farm, in the quieter, more secluded areas far removed from the bustling activity of the farm animals. He was a creature of solitude, keeping mostly to himself, rarely venturing near the clucking chickens or the honking geese down in the main farmyard. He maintained a respectful distance from the imposing livestock guardian dogs, those furry sentinels who patrolled the farm's boundaries with unwavering diligence. For the most part, his days were spent traversing the open pastures and the shadowed depths of the woods, his keen nose twitching as he sought out the telltale signs of mice, voles, and other diminutive rodents that would eventually become his meals. While he wasn't a particularly exceptional hunter, he was competent enough to ensure a fairly consistent food supply, rarely experiencing prolonged periods of hunger. All in all, this little gray fox enjoyed a pretty decent existence, as far as the often-precarious life of a fox could go.
As the days began their slow surrender to the encroaching chill of autumn, and the hours of daylight dwindled with increasing rapidity, the little gray fox sensed the approaching respite of winter. While foxes don't engage in true hibernation like some other creatures, they do tend to become less active, adopting a more laid-back approach to life during the colder months. They still venture out to hunt, and given a fox's penchant for mice, a resourceful individual can usually locate a scurrying morsel here and there throughout the winter landscape, ensuring sustenance even when the ground is blanketed in snow. So, by all accounts, for a fox residing in Vermont, this little gray fox was doing exceptionally well.
However, despite this relatively comfortable existence, a subtle undercurrent of dissatisfaction stirred within the little gray fox. He couldn't shake the feeling that his humble home beneath the old maple stump was rather shabby. A monotonous routine of rodent-based meals was beginning to bore him; perhaps something more interesting, more exotic, would tantalize his taste buds. A touch of resentment also gnawed at him – the prospect of having to brave the snowy wilderness in search of food, rather than enjoying a quiet, peaceful slumber, filled him with a certain degree of self-pity.
It was with this somewhat disgruntled mindset that the little fox ventured out one day in search of his next meal. His wanderings led him to an encounter with an old, rather forlorn Canada Goose. This goose was not a picture of health and vitality. He appeared gaunt and thin, a significant portion of his plumage was missing, and he stood all alone in the vast expanse of the pasture. The little gray fox cautiously approached the Canada Goose and inquired about his solitary state.
"Ah, little fox," the goose replied with a weary sigh, "we geese are not like you, bound to a single place throughout the year. We are creatures of constant motion, forever on the move. No single spot is ever truly our home. We are perpetually in search of our next meal and the subsequent location to partake in that sustenance. The rest of my flock has already flown onward, their wings carrying them south towards warmer climes and greener pastures. I merely stopped here to rest my weary wings for a few moments, hoping to gather enough strength to rejoin them and continue our journey."
The little gray fox, perhaps feeling a flicker of unexpected empathy, responded, "Gosh, mister, I'm truly sorry to hear that you never have a permanent home and are constantly on the move, and that all your friends and family have left you behind. Say, do you mind if I eat you?"
The old Canada Goose, surprisingly spry despite his apparent exhaustion, shot upright with a sudden burst of energy. He smacked the gray fox soundly with his wing and, with a surprising burst of flapping and honking, took to the air. "Heck no, little fox! You're not going to eat me! I'm flying onward!" And with those defiant words, the goose soared into the sky, his honks echoing across the fields as he winged his way towards those elusive greener pastures.
The little gray fox, momentarily stunned and disoriented by the unexpected avian assault, picked himself up, shook off his bruised ego (and perhaps a few stray feathers), and continued his search for a more conventional meal. With his small, pointed nose close to the ground, he resumed his sniffing, his senses attuned to the subtle rustlings and earthy scents that might betray the presence of a mouse. Suddenly, a massive shadow fell over him, followed by the earth-shattering thud of a giant hoof landing mere inches from his face.
Startled beyond measure, the little gray fox leaped backward and craned his neck upwards. What loomed above him was a colossal bull moose, its immense size and impressive rack of antlers casting a long, imposing shadow. Now, for those who haven't had the privilege of encountering a bull moose in person, the most striking characteristic is its sheer, unbelievable size. They seem almost too large to be real. I myself once had the unnerving experience of rounding a corner on the farm and finding myself face-to-antler with a particularly large specimen. My initial reaction was sheer, unadulterated fear, so profound that I was momentarily paralyzed, convinced that such a massive creature couldn't possibly be alive.
As the little gray fox gazed up at this gigantic bull moose, its massive antlers branching skyward like the limbs of an ancient oak, all he could manage was a startled little yelp. The big bull moose, seemingly oblivious to the terror he had just inspired, looked down at the small creature at his feet. "Oh, sorry there, buddy," he rumbled in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Didn't see you there on the ground. I'm just out here looking for branches and trees that I can eat. Takes a lot of branches and a lot of needles and a lot of leaves to feed a big old moose like myself."
The little gray fox, still slightly shaken, stammered, "You mean to tell me that a big giant like yourself exists solely off things like those pine needles over there?" The big old bull moose nodded his massive head and took a giant bite of some pine needles just above the gray fox's head, a shower of green needles cascading down around the little predator. A thought, perhaps fueled by desperation or sheer curiosity, flickered through the little gray fox's mind. "Gosh," he mused, "maybe there's something to this pine needle eating." He tentatively took a bite himself, his small teeth nibbling at the sharp, resinous needles. The immediate result was a violent shudder and an involuntary spitting out of the offending greenery. Even the humble mouse, he concluded, was a culinary delicacy compared to the utter unpleasantness of pine needles. With a shake of his head, the little gray fox watched as the moose lumbered off into the woods, and then he turned and trotted in the opposite direction.
For the next few hours, the little gray fox continued his wanderings, driven by the dual desires of finding sustenance and breaking the monotony of his daily routine. Eventually, his explorations led him to a cave, nestled deep within the darkest recesses of the forest, a place he had never ventured before. As he cautiously sniffed at the entrance, an intriguing scent tickled his nostrils. With careful and stealthy movements, he crept into the cave, his curiosity piqued. He padded deeper and deeper into the darkness, the mysterious smell growing stronger with each step. Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed through the cavern. "WHO DARES ENTER MY CAVE?"
A massive black bear stood before him, her eyes gleaming with unmistakable anger. The little fox recoiled in terror, the realization of his folly washing over him. He had inadvertently stumbled into the den of a creature far more formidable than himself, and this particular black bear did not seem pleased by the intrusion. He feared that his time as a little gray fox was about to come to a rather abrupt and unpleasant end, his final moments on Earth spent as a meal for a hungry bear, eventually to be unceremoniously transformed into bear scat. It was certainly not the dignified end he had envisioned.
Panic surged through him. Unsure of what else to do, the little gray fox instinctively rolled over onto his back, exposing his vulnerable belly to the imposing predator. In his most supplicating voice, he squeaked, "Please don't eat me, lady black bear! I was just looking for mice to eat!" The black bear snorted, a sound that rumbled through the cave like distant thunder. "I would never eat a creature like you! Fox meat tastes disgusting! So, don't worry, I'm not going to eat you. But I want you to get out of my cave!"
With a surge of relief, the little gray fox scrambled back to his feet and began to slowly back away towards the cave entrance. But before he could retreat too far, the black bear added one more thing. "You know, you must be very lucky. I'm pregnant and about to have some cubs, and we're going to have to spend all winter in this den. I'm very worried that I didn't get enough food this past summer, because I won't be eating for several months during my hibernation. I have to rely on the fat reserves I built up to keep both me and my cubs alive. And because of the flooding we had this year, there weren't many apples or acorns or beechnuts. So, I'm still hungry."
The little gray fox, surprisingly touched by the bear's plight, felt a pang of sympathy. He couldn't imagine going such a long time without food, while he had the freedom to venture out and find a meal whenever he pleased. As he finally exited the black bear's cave, a profound sense of gratitude began to dawn within him. Sure, his little den in the maple tree was modest and lacked any real grandeur, but it provided warmth and a place he could truly call home, unlike the perpetually wandering goose. And yes, the daily diet of mice and voles might be a bit monotonous, but at least it didn't taste as utterly repulsive as the pine needles the moose was forced to consume. And while braving the snowy landscape in search of food during the dead of winter wasn't his favorite activity, it was certainly preferable to the black bear's predicament, facing the entire winter with the gnawing fear of insufficient sustenance for herself and her unborn cubs due to a difficult summer.
With an overwhelming sense of thankfulness, the little gray fox turned and headed back towards his humble abode. He felt a genuine appreciation for all the things he possessed, rather than dwelling on the things he lacked. Compared to the goose, the moose, and the black bear, his life seemed pretty darn good indeed. Just as this realization settled within him, a tiny movement caught his eye. A small mouse scurried across the open pasture. Instinct took over. The little gray fox locked his gaze on the unsuspecting creature, gathered his legs beneath him, and launched himself forward in a swift, decisive leap. He landed squarely on the mouse, pinning it beneath his paw. He drew back his head, his jaws opening in anticipation of a familiar meal. Suddenly, the little mouse squeaked, its tiny voice filled with desperation. "Please, Mr. Fox, don't eat me! I'm just a little, little mouse! Can you please take pity on me?"
The gray fox looked down at the tiny, trembling creature beneath his paw. For a brief moment, the lessons of the day – the goose's homelessness, the moose's unappetizing diet, the bear's hunger – flickered through his mind. He opened his mouth, and in one swift gulp, he swallowed the mouse whole. Because sometimes, despite the fleeting moments of empathy and the newfound appreciation for one's own circumstances, nature can be cruel, and life simply unfolds in its own unforgiving way.