During the pandemic, a lonely old man living in a ground-floor flat on my street in south London took in an orphaned fox. They watched daytime TV together on the sofa and snacked on bits of toast with Gentleman’s Relish. Then, one day, the man had to go in to hospital and never returned. At least, that was the backstory I imagined when a slightly ragged but curiously tame fox turned up at my back door.
I called him Reynard. My wife called him That Fox. As in: That Fox has pissed on my shoes again. That Fox has stolen all the eggs. That Fox is thinking about eating the baby.
