When the Fox Comes Calling

The first was a quiet betrayal — the body freezer, somehow switched off. I don’t know how long it had been left that way. Too long to risk it. The choice was simple but heavy: I couldn’t refreeze what had thawed, so I buried and disposed of the contents.

But what truly cut was not the bone or bodywork I lost, but something far more fragile. Tucked away in the cold, I had kept breast milk I’d expressed nearly nine years ago, when my son was small. I had saved it, planned to preserve it, even create something from it one day. A memento of survival — of the battle I had with PND and the painful struggle with breastfeeding. That frozen milk was proof of a journey through shadow, a piece of my past I had fought hard to hold onto. Losing it felt like losing that reminder all over again..

A week later, the garden told its own tale. Planters knocked over, soil scattered. And there, laid out like an offering in the centre, the body of a stoat. But not all was left behind. My rook had vanished completely, and with it, my pug baculum — taken, spirited away.

Perhaps our cats played their part, but I know the truth of fox-mischief when I see it. They are opportunists, cunning thieves, and collectors in their own right. One must respect their ways, even when they plunder your own hidden cache.