minding about the foxes

I'll say straight off that we dont either of us mind that much about the foxes. We should of course, and we really do, but the conversation keeps going that way, in subtle ways,

"there he was, bold as brass, right on the track, just standin' lookin' at me, didnt even budge when i drove past,"

...or later when Terry set fire to the apricot prunings,

"...big feller he was, good looking animal, ran out of the pile when i setthe match, not a bit of mange on him either,"

And there's me promising to show Terry, wise old blockie in a terry-towelling hat, where the burrow is and always forgetting just quite where it is.

Really you just have to follow the trail of feathers from the next door neighbours chook.

We know we should and we must, but Terry's promise to dynamite the den seems temporarily and permamently on hold.

The little ones in their still-grey fur shook and chiacked at me when i first surprised one of their siblings eating from the chewed up cup of an orange.