The Fox (Creative Fiction - Essay)

The only light illuminating the riding ring was a yellow arc from the floodlight over the door to the barn. It was a cold December night. Christmas lights twinkled on the cornices of a home across the street from the barn, blinking beacons of green, blue and red. Kricket’s hooves crunched through the ice puddles, breaking the dark quiet of woods and fields. My old gelding balked about being out so late at night, and I was in no mood for his antics.

My mind reeled with endless chore lists: Christmas shopping, gifts to wrap, cookies to bake, and the house to clean. I was rushing everywhere trying to do everything at once, and in trying, I didn't get anything done. I certainly felt no pleasure in my Christmas preparations that year as I raced from baking cookies to shopping, from work to barn and off to every activity I’d over-committed myself to completing. My ancient horse needed exercise almost every day, regardless of rain, snow or cold. If he didn’t get outside, his ankles would swell or he’d have an upset tummy.

The rich black sky sparkled with crystalline stars, fogged by our mingled breath as I led Kricket from his stall towards the riding ring. A tiny hole in the index finger of my right glove formed an icy second finger digging into my flesh finger.

I led Kricket over to the rail where my saddle was waiting. I placed layers of padding on my old horse' back: first the fuzzy pad, then the foam rubber doughnut to protect his tender spine, then his saddle, then the girth, then the fuzzy girth cover to prevent sores. Kricket decided wisely at that point that he'd had enough. He started walking back to the barn. I ran up and caught him, yelling, "You stupid old horse, don't you ever walk away from me like that...did you hear me? I hate it when you do that..."

Hours of anger and frustration building all day burst forth. I grabbed my crop, set my jaw, and grimly swung aboard Kricket, intent upon getting his exercise over and done with so I could get on with Christmas preparations.

What should have been a pleasant, relaxing end of day ride for the two of us became a grim battle of wills. Kricket didn't want to go past the barrel jump; he would and I would make him do it. The wind sighed and shifted the skeletal branches of the scrubby trees encircling the ring, throwing twisted shadows on the frozen dirt, and Kricket stopped and snorted. After a discussion that escalated into an argument, he finally continued his old man's shuffle, sighing in his patient and understanding way, as if to say, "I know, I know, another bad day..." We've known each other since we were both eight years old, and with the companionship born of many seasons together, Kricket understands and forgives my moods, as I do his. Tonight, I needed forgiveness.

We rounded the back corner of the ring, my mind squealing with endless chatter from its to-do list. A bright red flash caught my eye and I pulled Kricket up to see what creature had just entered the ring. I was staring into the eyes of a fox. He ignored me and focused on Kricket.

Horse and fox gazed at each other like old friends, as if they had prearranged this date. Our visitor was about the size of a small dog, and his coat was a burnished amber, thick and shining in the lights from the spotlight. His gaze was luminous and so intelligent I felt he would almost speak. He looked up at us surprised, as if to say, "What are you two doing out here at this time of night?"

The fox came a little closer, tail wagging. They stared at each other, my big red horse and the little red fox. It was as if Kricket and the fox were speaking. I suddenly felt left out of the conversation. I was the outsider, caught up with all my human thoughts. I had been so outside of the moment, I had almost missed it.

I looked out past the fox and at the little Christmas lights on the houses far, far off. They blinked merrily, and I suddenly realized how foolish my worries and concerns are; I was the luckiest person on earth every night Kricket and I spent time together, and shopping, wrapping and cleaning would get done, more or less as they had every year..

If I had continued with my worried inward chatter, I would have missed this moment.

The fox drew closer, then sat down on his haunches five feet away. The night air suddenly seemed very calm and cold, and still, achingly still.

With a flash of his tail, the fox vanished. His shadow loped up the hill and past the pond in the light of the floodlight from the barn, his stride blissfully free.

I urged Kricket into the field. The wind whistled in his mane. We became one with the cold night, and followed the fox on his evening errand. But we must pause at the fence line, staring wistfully beyond into the bright dark fields.

After that night in December, sometimes when I ride I let the reins go limp when I ride after a hard day at work. No longer do I set my jaw grimly and struggle every moment with my horse. Tonight we wander through the fields, considering the stars, the crescent moon, the fern-leaf patterns of frost on the pond.

Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of the fox through the trees. Then the shadow vanishes. But the spirit lingers, the essence of icy winds, burnished amber coat, and dark, knowing eyes. Rest in the moment, he seems to say, and lay your cares aside. Be with me. Be free.

The Fox by Jeanne Grunert copyright 2011. All rights reserved. No portion of this story may be reproduced in print or online without the author's permission in writing.

The Fox is a true story. It happened around Christmastime, 1989, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed sharing it! If you like my creative writing and articles, please follow my work on Hub Pages or follow me on my various social networks for the latest.

This story originally appeared in the print literary magazine, Curioser & Curioser, in 1991. I retain and own all rights to it in all media. Please respect my copyright. Thank you.