Our new vet asked us to pop in and see Frankie. He was tiny, reddish brown, flat out and on a drip.
Apparently, he had been knocked a glancing blow by a car. When a car and a fox collide, especially a maybe 6-week-old cub, there tends to be only one winner and one loser! We were looking at the loser. Joe, the vet, assured us “he looks a lot better than he did a few days ago.”
“Well at least he’s got his ears up” Cherry added.
So, we took a closer look. Frankie was probably no more that 7 or 8 weeks old and certainly should not have been out on his own, and definitely not ‘playing’ near traffic.
He was reddish brown all over, very thin and lying quite still. Joe was not sure that Frankie’s sight was as good as we might hope. As he looked at us, Frankie did not seem to have too much of a problem and his eyes were clear and amber brown. His tail was bushy but not very long with a black end as though he had dipped it in a tin of black paint. However, he was very quiet and still – most un-fox like. I thought that only with enormous care would Frankie survive.
“Of course, we will have him, but tomorrow we go to the Scillies (the islands off of the tip of Cornwall) and we won’t return until Thursday. We could pick him up on Friday – a week today” Cherry enthused, as one of her favourite animals is the bright eyed, much maligned but incredibly able and intelligent fox.
Several times while in the Scillies, Cherry wondered “how do you think Frankie the fox is?”
“Don’t build your hopes up” I would answer.
Although foxes are tough, this poor little mite looked anything but.
On the Friday following, we were both delighted when a whole veterinary team delivered him early that morning. Cherry and I both thought how thin he was, but were thrilled he was alive. We would now concentrate on building him up and putting some muscle on his scraggy little frame.
We immediately mashed a tin of dog food with some warm milk. Half of it was lapped up, sucked up, and wolfed down as all puppies do. The other half was splashed over the floor (fortunately tiled) for the next part of the exercise. He finished the lot. We then put him in a cat-carrying box. Quickly we realised he needed more space so we then brought out of our store a large dog cage and to make it easier for Cherry to keep clean, we arranged it on one end of the breakfast table. Layers of newspapers were ripped to shreds and then when all coverings were removed; Frankie produced a huge foul smelling, liquid ‘poo’, ‘poo’ being the word.
We lifted him out and let him run round the kitchen and breakfast room, while Cherry and I did our best to gather all the torn newspapers and clean up the most ‘exquisite’ liquid stinking mess, while Frankie sat in front of us with an expression of absolute bliss on his foxy mask, and chose the only rug on to which he emptied his bladder, unbelievably large for his diminutive size.
Over the days his other foxy markings appeared. Black hair grew on his legs giving the impression of him walking around in black hairy ‘gum boots’. His mask had now black facial markings with white splashes and black tips to his pointed ears.
We let him out to run around the house and to feed, but always had to be watchful with regard to his lavatorial habits. Quickly, we realised he needed somewhere to hide away, so we joined the dog cage to a large wooden box we have previously used to transport our male Lynx. This arrangement served Frankie well for a few more days. We still needed to exercise him and we allowed him to go onto the patio where our Labradors are secure when they want a breath of fresh air, rather than watching T.V! Initially, he would run around the built up pond and huge potted plants and trees.
After a few days, he started to jump on one of the seats and Cherry quickly began to worry that, even as a pup, he would soon jump over the 4’6” wall. In spite of her warnings, I thought it unlikely that he would escape. That was until the Sunday, just 10 days after his arrival.
At about 8.30 in the evening, I decided to give him some exercise. I opened his crate door, fed him, and then let him go out onto to patio. Several times he ran around and around, this side of a chair, that side of a large planted pot and then over the pond, back and forth, I watched him. Then, suddenly he was on a large wooden seat clearly contemplating a jump onto the wall. Before I could get across the patio, he was balancing precariously on the top of the wall then, he jumped down to the gravel path on the other side of it. I ran out to try to forestall his escape to see his black tipped tail sticking up as he cantered passed the shack, on past the Scottish Wild Cats, the Pine Martens and the male Coati Mundi, which had been parted from his wife while she rears his children. I lost sight of him but suddenly heard warning calls of the Guinea Fowl, chattering and whistling their awareness of this particular menace! I caught up to see him disappearing past the Leopard Cats. He ran into an area in front of the Otters where, if I could catch up, I could maybe get a hold on him. But no, he was off again as quick as lightning, up to the Puma’s. They all came out to the side of their enclosures and Frankie stopped, a little intimidated by the massive cats. I almost caught up. He looked around and saw me, then jumped into the Tortoise “Ranch” and as soon as I had ducked under the handrail and straightened myself up, he jumped into the Hedgehog run! This was his mistake as the Hedgehog run was surrounded by netting, so sweating and panting I quickly caught hold of him, one hand firmly around his scruffy neck and the other holding his hind legs together tightly, allowing no possibility of escape.
I took him back to his temporary house and locked the door carefully. After catching my breath and wiping my sweaty brow I went into the living room where Cherry was relaxing.
“I think you were right” I said, “I think we will put Frankie in a permanent enclosure tomorrow.”
I look forward to writing much more about Frankie – a real little character.