The Fox ... A storyBy JENNY CRAWLEYThe man stood in the field watching the clouds race by. His head bent backwards, arms hanging by his sides, his feet slightly apart; there was nothing for him but the sky and the clouds. The mongrel dog lying at his feet had long ago stopped licking them. It waited, knowing that sooner or later the man would start moving again. And so he did, after a while, move off in the direction of home, the dog jumping up and kissing its beloved master, happy knowing dinner wasn't far away. The man fed the dog, stoked the fire and fed himself, all the time with tears rolling down his cheeks. He moved slowly, there was no time for him, the dog being his only reminder that it was dinnertime. It was bitterly cold outside. The dog curled up in front of the fire while its owner roamed the empty house looking for someone he would never find. The dog knew and he knew, but he couldn't help himself, he had to have another look. At last he stopped and threw himself into the chair in front of the fire. His tears turned to sobs and within seconds his whole body was wracked with noises that were half-human. The dog pricked up its ears and it too began baying. They were both howling. It was a competition, who could make the most noise, but after a while the man collapsed onto the floor and fell asleep, arms around the dog, his face buried in its fur. The fire burned down until, in the middle of the night, he woke freezing and crawled into bed, the dog curled up on the covers next to him. Early in the morning a loud banging on the front door woke him. 'Who the fuck is that?' he thought as he stumbled to the door. Opening it, he was ready to spit at whoever would disturb him at this hour. Standing there resolutely was Henry, the local copper and his best mate. "Mornin' Jim, how yer doin'?" "Oh, it's you. What do you want?" He could barely look at Henry; instead he stared at someone or something unseen beyond Henry. "I thought you might like to know..." Forcing the words out, Henry knew the effect they would have on his friend, " the Coroner has handed down his decision." No movement, no reaction from Jim, it was as if he had turned to stone. Henry softened his voice and spoke. "Death by misadventure." Jim sucked in a mouthful of air and pushed past his mate, hissing at him, "Leave me, Henry." He bounded down the front steps, two at a time, pushing the old wooden gate so hard, one of the hinges fell off. Across the front paddock he strode, jumped over the fence and was gone. The dog looked at Henry and then trotted off after his master. It didn't run, it knew where he was going. Henry went inside. Back to the field went Jim. He threw himself onto the damp ground clawing up dirt and tufts of grass. His tears and snot soaked into the ground. The earth held him until he quietened. He rolled over and saw the sky. His wife came to him. Molly. Her smiling face floated above him. She knew and loved him like no other. Molly was Henry's cousin from New South Wales. The first time he met her he had been out the back, in the chookhouse, collecting eggs. It had been a hot and dry summer, something pretty unusual for Tasmania, and Jim was wearing an old sarong he'd found in an op shop. He'd stood tall and proud when Henry and Molly had sprung him good and proper holding his eggs. Henry did the somewhat embarrassed introductions and Molly looked Jim straight in the eyes and said, simply, "Love a bloke in a dress." And for the first time in his life, he realized he'd met someone who spoke the truth, every time. No matter how small or insignificant, how sensitive or embarrassing, or how big or powerful, she spoke the truth. The truth of this woman hit Jim with a force he didn't expect. He loved her from that first moment. Within days they were living together and their love grew. He remembered for a few brief seconds on his wedding day he had thought their love was almost too big for this earth. And then the fox came. The chooks were off the lay. There was no reason, winter was a couple of months away and they had plenty of good tucker. Jim had only ever lost a couple of chooks and the dog, who slept outside back then, kept the usual predators, quolls and raptors, very wary of attempting any nocturnal thievery. One night, Molly sat straight up in bed and woke Jim. "Jim, listen. Listen to that." He woke in time to hear a weird high-pitched cry. It was unlike any animal cry he had heard before. The dog started barking and howling. "Jim, that's a fox!" "No, Molly, can't be, there's no foxes in Tassie." "Well, get your gun, mate and we'll see if there's no bloody foxes in Tassie." They quickly dressed and headed for the backdoor. Outside it was deathly quiet. The dog was sniffing around a pile of feathers scattered near a hole in the dirt under the chicken wire. Its nose caught the scent. Whining, yelping, it wanted to go. "O.K. matey," said Jim, "let's get 'im." And they were off. Across the paddocks and over fences they sprinted, their path littered with an occasional feather. Sunrise was half an hour away and the grey light was just enough for them to see the flash of a long red tail disappear over a creek embankment. The dog went crazy. Jim slipped the safety catch off and Molly ran in front, yelling, "Quick, Jimmy boy, quick." He charged after her, not seeing the rabbit hole that grabbed his foot. He slammed to the ground and the last sight he had of his wife alive was her flying red hair. The gun went off, Molly dropped to the ground and the dog stopped barking. Jim didn't want to remember anymore. He saw the clouds again and became aware that someone else was in the paddock. Henry was sitting a few feet away, staring at his friend. "The kettle's boiled, mate. Fancy a cuppa?" Jim slowly got to his feet and moved over towards his mate who put his arm around him and together they moved off towards the house. The dog followed. Jenny Crawley is studying journalism on top of doing a full-time job.
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