BY JOHN MACNAB
Following the excellent Country Squire writer Roger Watson’s entertaining column on Urban Fox Hunting in these pages, I was inspired to share two of my favourite fox recipes—braised leg of fox and fox stew. I received so many queries via direct message on Twitter (as it was then) for further recipes and information on how I obtained my foxes. The editor of Country Squire—not himself a hunter of foxes—declined to publish that, as he thought even the most hardened of the country sports brigade, let alone those loopy hunt saboteurs, would find the details wounding.
I do not intend to share those details here, as, in fact, the police descended on my house and confiscated my gin traps, blunderbuss, and night-vision binoculars. I now find myself—and, by implication, my neighbours—defenceless against these urban menaces.
In my view, foxes are the very worst of the illegal immigrants we have in my Yorkshire town. While it remains illegal to shoot illegal migrants, I believe that restriction ought to be lifted for foxes.
I live in a small patch in a cul-de-sac with fewer than fifty houses. Several are owned by absent millionaires, and most are well looked after. However, one is neglected, and the garden has become completely overgrown and impenetrable. It would take napalm or a major fire to clear it out. Worse still, it has become a breeding ground for foxes.
Nobody knows how many foxes there are, but we can see them, smell them, and hear them. There is at least one big fellow of a dog fox, and he seems to have a harem of vixens. His fertility and their fecundity are demonstrable by the number of fox cubs now caught on neighbours’ CCTV and Ring doorbells.
We have turned off alerts on our system while sleeping; otherwise, we would get no sleep. But each morning, the footage can be reviewed, and nearly every alert—of the many we would have received—is a fox. They skulk around gardens, jump fences, and regularly leave one or several of their treacly, black, stinking faeces on lawns or patios.
The legacy of our local foxes is shared daily on our patch WeChat group. At first, people were amused; some even fed them. But now, folk are growing weary as the amount of fox poo piles up, kids’ toys are removed from gardens, trainers left to dry are deposited in random gardens, and parcels or letters left hanging from letterboxes are ripped apart. And these are not just nocturnal activities—foxes can be seen regularly in daylight hours.
They are not afraid of humans. Two that confronted me the other night as I was ‘destroying the evidence’ (depositing an empty wine bottle in the recycling bin) looked at me as if I should not be there before moving off slowly in different directions.
The local council has been alerted, but they are so packed with Green Party and Lib Dems that I suspect the person making the complaint will probably be arrested for doing so. Either that, or they will debate how to give the foxes handouts such as free housing, bus passes, and mobile phones. That is what happens with every other illegal migrant.
It seems we are, genuinely, defenceless against this marauding horde of wild but urbanised animals. Given that they, essentially, have their own garden on private land and cannot be disturbed there, very little can be done. I have considered poisoning some meat and throwing it into the garden, but we do have a fair population of pet cats. Even some neighbourhood dogs escape now and then, and I would not want that on my conscience. Owning a gun and subsequently discharging it in this urban development would see me in front of the beak before you could say ‘John Peel’.
For the moment, the foxes have won. They enjoy exclusive occupation of a substantial garden, unrestricted rights of passage through every neighbouring property, and—judging by the evidence left on our lawns—no obligation whatsoever to clean up after themselves. The rest of us must barricade the bins, bring in the children’s toys, and review the overnight footage each morning like intelligence officers studying enemy movements. I would write to the council, though I fully expect its reply to offer the foxes protected status and ask whether I have considered relocating.
John MacNab is a fictional character from the eponymous John Buchan novel. He tweets @JohnMacNab10.