The Lazy Dog And The Brown Fox

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The dog lifted it head up, sensing somehow that something was definitely amiss.

Meanwhile, the fox slinked away, its prize dripping its blood from the fox's mouth. The fox knew he had to be quiet. He had yet to escape dangerous grounds.

The dog squinted out into the darkness, its old, once keen eyes seeing nothing but the usual ethereal highlights of the trees and the bushes in the bright evening moon. It’s sad, drooping face expressing self-disgust. He knew better than to over-react at such harmless noises. He was far from the overexcited adventure-hungry pup he once was. He looked at the rough long cord trailing away from his neck, eventually wrapping around a tall, cold, very hard plant of some sort. Odd, that plant, the dog mused. It didn’t have branches, or leaves, or twigs. It was like a long, silver stick, too straight and smooth. The dog knew the creatures that tied him to it had knowledge of what it was. But it came from the ground, and that was all the dog really knew anymore. The dog whined softly. The cord around his neck chaffed his now soggy neck. The left wrist of his front leg ached and throbbed from arthritis. He was no fit guard dog, the dog knew, but the animals with no fur fed him, and created a hole of some sort for him, somewhere to shelter from the heat of the sun and the cold of the rain. The dog was bone tired. The lay his wrinkled head back onto his paws, careful of his left wrist. He seemed too tired, these days. Sometimes, maybe too often these days, he wished he could sleep and let the world darken around him. He had done his duty; he had protected the creatures who fed him his whole life. He even had 3 sets of pups to carry his story to their pups. For now, he just needed just a little bit of rest. He had deserved it, and his old body just wasn’t the same anymore, anyway. The dog drifted into a dreamless sleep, so deep, he got his often wished for dream.

The fox breathed a sigh of relief as he crept and slithered through the last of the hard, shiny thorns. He looked back at the odd plant, wondering for the thousandth time where it had come from. Weeks ago, those thorns had not been there. The fox didn’t even see a seedling of it before, yet there it was, now.

He hurried to his den, wondering all the way if his mate was still awake. His vixen partner seemed weaker, these days, and the fox could not help but feel responsible. He failed too often in his hunting. But he did notice that there seemed to be fewer prey. He had not seen rabbits, mice and birds in a week. He knew he was very lucky to find all of those fat birds in one hole. He could assure his mate a full stomach, tonight, and many more nights to come. He only took one, and ate one for himself in the bird hole. He did think it odd, though, that the birds did not flee from him until it was too late. But he knew it was a blessing to him, and his mate, all the same. He knew he had been too weak to make a chase, then, anyway. The fox looked from left to right, expressing what passed for a frown. The forest was changing, he knew it. The forest had seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, lately, and the air would sometime blow in a direction that made the clean, sweet forest air smell of… the fox didn’t know. It made his lungs want to close up, made him want to run from it, towards the cleaner, purer scent of the forest, where he knew he was safe. He crawled into his den, finding his mate in the darkened space. She was panting. He knew how hungry she was, and quickly offered her his conquest. She whined, eyes half-closed, and sniffed at the offering. She didn’t touch it though. The fox looked on worriedly, meeting his mate’s eyes. The thick, bad air had come again, she said. It lasted so long; she thought she might have surrendered her body to the earth. They both knew she was too weak to come out from the den safely, too weak to run from the bad air. The fox nudged the carcass towards her. You must eat. You must gain your strength back, if we are to escape the bad air. The vixen closed her eyes. I must sleep, only for a while, first. The bad air still makes my lungs burn. I cannot eat, just yet. I am far too dizzy. The fox forgave his mate, understanding her discomfort. I will stay with you, until you awaken. Sleep well, my mate. The fox awakened to animals making loud noises with their loud barks and voices. He blinked, realizing his mate had not awakened yet. He nudged her shoulder with his nose gently. Vixen, you must wake. The two legged loud creatures are outside. His mate did not stir. She was not warm, and when the fox nudged her again, he noticed her body felt stiff. The fox whined softly, careful not to alert the loud animals of his location, yet troubled by his mate. Vixen, what is the matter? Wake, vixen, and eat. We must leave this place, when the loud animals have gone. We must make a new home, where the air is clean and clear.

His mate still did not stir. Understanding dawned on the fox, and sadness and confusion filled him. Why had she gone back to the earth? He had given her food. He looked at the untouched chicken. He sat there, in the dark, and thought of what he would do next, now that his mate was gone.

The animals had left, and the fox climbed out of his old den. He had eaten the chicken, and for now, his belly was full. He trotted quickly, and disappeared into the bushes. To the clean air, to the plentiful prey. But without his mate. He wondered vaguely if he might find such a place. He kept wondering as he wandered in a new place, a new forest.