Heading out to work on our Colorado farm this morning, I found a dead fox in the side yard. It was the juvenile male that took up residence on the farm this spring. Over the past two weeks, I have watched him trot along with a vole in his mouth, munch on our crop of apples and sniff his way across the pastures in search of other quarry.
On initial inspection, there was no apparent injury; I imagined he may have consumed something poisonous since he has had the habit of bringing baseballs, chew bones and other items in from neighboring properties. Then, when I turned him over, I found a bloody gash across his chest, no doubt the handiwork of a coyote or older male fox. If our farm was larger, I might have left him where he lie, a natural victim of nature's cycle. I had no intention of calling the county wildlife patrol and have him end up in a landfill; neither could I leave him in place since the odor of decay would certainly annoy the locals. So, despite the dry, hard-packed earth, I managed to bury him near a fence line, throwing on a layer of mulch for good measure.
It's always sad to come across dead animals, especially the young that have just begun to explore their home environment. We accept the fact that nature is a balance of life and death but, given our own fears and our instinct for self-preservation, one is prone to mourn their fate. Those of us who feel a kinship with wild creatures also want their death to be honored, not with ritual and mysticism, but by returning their body to nature's recyclers.
