The Fox and the Hound (26 page)
Tod now added the technique of still hunting to his list of dangers. He realized it was not the tracker who was the menace but the men on the Hanks. Running from the tracker, it was easy to ignore the presence of the two men ahead and on either side. So from now on when he was disturbed, Tod ran with an eye out to both the right and left.
In late November there was a heavy snow that seriously inconvenienced Tod until a crust formed and he could run across it. Even so, it was so deep that he was unable to dig down to his caches except with the greatest difficulty, and if it had not been for the garbage cans in the developments he would have been hard put to it to make a living.
He was returning one morning from a night of can pilfering when he heard a curious noise, Ding! Dong! it went. Then again, ding, dong, ding! Tod paused to listen, head cocked to one side, a dainty black foot raised, his ears straight up. The sound was repeated over and over. The constant repetition drove Tod mad with curiosity. He started toward it.
The sound was getting closer. It did not sound dangerous, and Tod might have kept on had he not noticed a ridge that offered him a better view. He turned off and made for the ridge. Even from this elevation he could not see what was making the remarkable noise. Ding, dong, ding, dong. It was coming through an alder swamp, not frozen solid. Tod decided to run down and meet it.
As he began to move, he saw the Man come out from among the alders and move forward across an open field. He was swinging something in his hand that gave off the ringing note. Tod watched him go by, and then, still fascinated, trotted down over the snow crust and followed in his footprints. The Man had a gun over his shoulder, but surely he could not be up to harm, behaving in this fantastic way. Consumed by curiosity, Tod pressed close behind the figure until they were scarcely twenty feet apart. So they traveled across the open field, the Man stopped at intervals to ring the bell and stare out across the flats; and each time he stopped, Tod also stopped and stared too, wondering what the Man could be looking for. When the Man resumed walking, Tod walked too, stepping exactly in his tracks.
The Man came to a road where a car was parked. With a groan, he opened the door, threw the bell inside, and then broke open his shotgun and unloaded it. He dropped the shells into his pocket, took a case out of the car, and carefully put the gun away. All the while, Tod stood not fifteen feet behind him, watching intently, turning his head from one side to the other the better to follow the Man's actions. What could he be about?
The Man replaced the gun case in the car and shut the rear door. Then he turned to open the front door by the wheel. As he did so, he saw Tod standing behind him, watching him with a friendly, interested expression on his lean face. The Man stood staring at the fox, and then lifted his head to survey the broad expanse of snow-covered meadow, unbroken except for his own footprints with Tod's dainty tracks in each one where the fox had been following him only a few feet away.
Then the Man began to talk. Tod, listening intently, thought he detected a note of irritation in the voice. The magical spell was broken. In an instant, Tod became a wild animal again. He turned and fled across the snow crust, going like a drifting cloud shadow. Even when he was safe over the nearest ridge, Tod was still unsatisfied. His curiosity was unassuaged. Whatever had that Man been ringing that bell for? It was an entrancing problem.
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Seventh Hunt - Coursing With Greyhounds
As the years passed, the countryside began to change, and Tod hated changes, especially changes like this. His was basically a world of sound and scent; and when the sounds and scents altered, he felt lost and bewildered. Also, although he could see considerable distances when on some elevation, in running his route he went from one fixed object to another because he was small and his view was cut off by bushes, hedges, and even tall grass. Now he found his familiar trails cut by highways, new buildings, and other strange objects, and he had no idea how to get around them to resume his old course.
Every year, scenting grew more difficult. Huge, stinking bulldozers had moved in, tearing the guts out of the land, and when they were finished they left great, glaring rivers of concrete over which poured a constant flow of traffic, filling the air with fumes that polluted all other odors. Most of the trees had been cut down, and the air was drier, hotter, and lifeless. Hunting grew increasingly difficult, for the animals not run over on the highways had migrated to more open country. The farmers had followed them, and nearly all the farms were gone now, their places taken by the housing developments or by gigantic factories that added their quotas of filth to the atmosphere.
The people who were moving in were unlike any of the people Tod had ever known. They came in great hordes, as though fleeing some terrible natural catastrophe, like animals running before a forest fire. As with all fugitives, there was an air of panic about them. Instead of going about standard tasks like the farmers, they rushed around in pointless activities, always in automobiles. They raised no food, they kept no livestock - except countless dogs - and as the houses increased, the groundwater level sank until the earth was hard under Tod's feet. There was an unpleasant taste to the streams; the fish were dead; and the wild plants that had once been a stable part of Tod's diet grew increasingly difficult to find.
Yet Tod lingered on. This was his beloved home, his range for which he had fought, the place where he had known so much happiness and so many triumphs. Changed though it was, there were still a few trees, a few bushes and a few rocks he could remember ever since he was a pup, and he clung to them. He could not be happy anywhere else. All the foxes of his generation were dead or gone, but he could not bear the thought of seeking a new range. He was too old to start life over.
Although most of the other animals had gone, there were foxes in plenty. They were not like the foxes of the old days; they were more like alley cats, for they had become complete scavengers. They looted garbage pails, hung around the dumps looking for scraps, and knew exactly when the newly built grocery stores put out their refuse. Not one of them could have caught a rabbit to save his life, or stalked a field mouse. Yet they proliferated at an amazing rate, often building their dens under garages or among the junkyards that now littered the landscape. At one time, it was highly unusual for a litter of fox pups to live through a winter; finding food was too hard, and trappers, gunners, and hounds took their toll. Now there was no trapping, the new people had no guns, and the packs had long since disappeared. On the other hand, food was plentiful, and even the most witless pup could find garbage in the dumps. So the foxes increased at an alarming rate even though they were mangy, rickety, and stupid.
Tod avoided this new generation. He hated the odor of slops that clung to them, and their skulking, catlike ways. Although in the rutting season he would breed the vixens - and often more than one - he took little interest in them or their progeny. The old thrilling courtship through the deep woods and the brave battles with worthy opponents were gone; these creatures were openly promiscuous, and none of the scrawny, flea-ridden males dared to stand up to him, although sometimes a number of them would attack in a gang if they could catch him in one of the maze of passages through the junkyards that they knew so well. As there was now no need for a pair of foxes to hunt together as a team or for the males to catch game for the vixens and their pups - food being provided free by a benevolent society - there was no bond between the couples except momentary sexual gratification. Once the longer a pair lived together, the better they learned to know each other's almost invisible signals, the partner's hunting methods, and the range. Now there was no need for communication; there was no hunting, no range. Therefore there was no need for monogamy.
Of the human beings Tod had once known by sight or smell, there was left only the old trapper who had tried for so many years to catch him, ever since the death of the Trigg hound so long ago. The trapper had only one hound left, old Copper, who lived in the shack with him, for the hillside where the barrel kennels had once been was covered with new houses. The trapper had nothing but a tiny patch of land left around his cabin, and on every side the new developments were pressing in on him. The trapper, Copper, and Tod were the last three living creatures in the district who could still remember the old days and loved them. Everything else was new, alien, and bent on destruction.
When winter came, the old man and his old hound would still set out after Tod through what little open land was still left. They usually started out after a night snowfall, and Tod had gotten to expect them. When he awoke in the morning to find a sprinkling of fine, powdered snow on the ground, Tod would run to the nearest hogback to look for the two. If they did not come, Tod would feel upset and go looking for them. He recognized them as dangers, but even so they were part of his life, and he missed them. Besides, they were the only danger left, and Tod enjoyed dangers as long as they did not become too dangerous.
When spring came that year, the rains did not come with it. Tod went to all the usual places where the first spring buds and long grasses had always grown, but this year he was hard put to find any. Even the tough, cleansing saw grass he depended upon to rid him of worms after the long winter diet of meat was rare. At least, he had the satisfaction of not having to share his finds with any of the other foxes. They knew nothing of these woods foods, and ate garbage winter and summer.
June continued hot and dry, and by July Tod had trouble finding water for the first time in his life. The streams were now run through culverts and used as sewers, and the ponds had been drained to make room for the houses. Tod knew of a few pools in the woods, but these were dry now and he had to dig to find moist earth he could chew. He took to licking stones damp with earth-morning dew and ate the bulblike roots of May apple and snakeroot for moisture. There were still mice and a few rabbits and squirrels around; and now when Tod made a kill, he first eagerly lapped the blood of his quarry and then, breaking it open, drank the water in the bladder. So, in spite of the drought, he was able to maintain himself while waiting for the precious rain.
One night while making his rounds, Tod heard the barking of a fox. For a fox to bark at this time of year was strange enough, and never had Tod heard a bark like this. The voice was hoarse and choked, sending out no message, and ended in a series of long howls. Puzzled, Tod stopped and listened with his head turned slightly toward the sound. Then, driven by his still potent curiosity, he loped toward the cry.
He found the fox in the center of a little clearing. It was a wretched-looking animal, one of the scavengers, and standing with arched back and head down, barking. Then came the awful howls. Tod started at it unbelievingly.
Suddenly the fox began to snap at the air as though catching invisible flies. Bemused, Tod drew closer. The moon struck the surface of an exposed bit of quartz, making it glimmer, and the strange fox rushed to the stone, biting it. Lured on by this remarkable performance, Tod took a few steps closer.
The fox saw him now, and ran forward, crouching and whimpering. This was female procedure, but Tod was quite sure by the stranger's smell that he was a male. Tod tried to circle the creature to smell his anal glands, but the fox kept turning toward him, still going through a submissive procedure. Slowly Tod realized the stranger was begging for help. He was not in a trap and he did not seem to be pursued by an enemy. Tod could not imagine what was wrong.
The stranger fell on his side and clawed at his throat with his forepaws. Tod could hear him gasping for breath. Tod reared up on his hind legs and struck at the stranger with his stiff forelegs, partly because he thought the stranger wanted to play and partly out of sheer confusion. The stranger continued to roll on the ground, choking. Then, suddenly and unaccountably, he leaped to his feet and started to run. He passed so close to Tod that his brush touched, but the stranger paid no attention to him and vanished among the trees. Tod stood nonplussed, listening to the stranger crash through the underbrush as recklessly as one of the stupid dogs. When the sounds ceased, Tod went over and gingerly smelt the stranger's trail. It told him nothing, and after checking to make sure the creature had left no urine or feces that might be more informative, Tod went on his way.
A few mornings later, Tod was cutting across the lawn of one of the new houses after a night of mediocre hunting when a rabbit, mad with terror, dashed past him. Tod swiveled around and was after him in a fraction of a second, but the rabbit knew of a special hole in the picket fence, and dived through it, leaving Tod running up and down on the far side. Baffled, Tod turned away just as a fox exploded out of an ornamental yew hedge and rushed across the lawn.
Tod hesitated a moment, watching the newcomer. The fox's lower jaw hung down, his eyes were glassy, and he seemed to run blindly. Glutinous saliva coated his mouth, and he swayed as though unsure of his balance. His appearance was so curious that Tod snarled and turned sideways, guarding with his brush. As Tod was much the bigger animal, he took for granted the other fox would avoid him.
To Tod's astonishment, at his motion the other fox turned and charged him. Tod flirted his brush across his face and gave him a blow with his rump that set his adversary reeling. Instead of being dismayed or putting himself on guard, the other fox attacked again, blindly and with a silent fury that was terrifying. As he could not close his jaws, he could not bite, but he muzzled Tod's brush and side savagely, covering the bigger animal's soft fur with the sticky white saliva coating his jaws.
