All foxes lie, prevaricate, deceive, mislead, misconstrue and
generally distort the truth. We're famous for it and we're proud of
it. It's fun, a good test of mental gymnastics.
But when I was a little foxkit growing up, my mother told me that it
was very important to make sure I told the truth at least once per
day, just to keep in practice, so I could tell the truth when I
<em>really</em> needed to.
One day, there was a fox so good at lying, he could make up the most
fantastic things and be believed. He'd lie all the time whenever he
talked to someone, just for the delight in his craft.
He'd wander out at high noon and say, "Good luck to you this darkest
of nights!" And they'd respond, a little puzzled, "What about that
big light in the sky?"
Without batting an eye, he'd answer, "Sir, y'just got hit on the head,
you musta' forgotten on account of being hit on the head. Y'know when
you bang your noggin you see stars? Well, you just hit your head so
hard you're seeing one great, big star close up and mistaking it for
the sun!" So charming was the fox, so pleasant and believable, they
took it as truth right then and there.
One day, though, this fox, he met a vixen, and her fur was sleek,
shiny, and bright, bright red. Her leap was so high, her pounce so
graceful, that his icy vulpine heart melted right away and beat like a
bongo drum in his chest!
He walked up to her, intending to ask her to go out for a walk with
him, his eyes big and shining dreamily. When the vixen saw him, she
said to him, kinda' coy, "What are you nosing around for, then?" with
her ears and eyes focused on him.
He was going to tell her that he wanted to go out and run through the
fields all night with her. He opened his mouth to speak, and he found
he'd forgotten how to speak the truth! Out popped, "My, there, ma'am,
you sure smell like some good fresh meat there. I just wanted to know
where you caught that goose you've been supping on."
Well! This vixen felt just like you would if you thought someone was
making eyes at you only to find out he was after your dinner. She
growled and snapped and nipped at his tail! And the poor fox ran
right away, grumbling and whimpering.
He sat at home, thinking what to do. Pacing back and forth. He fixed
the idea in his mind, exactly how he felt and what he wanted to do,
and so, the next day, he went right up to that vixen, carrying some
wild lilacs and lavenders in his muzzle. He trotted up to her, and
laid them down at her feet.
That vixen thought that maybe the fox had been a bit shy and just lost
the nerve to say what he really meant. And seeing him drop those
flowers down her heart started beating faster and faster. She looked
at him. He looked back at her, a twinkle in his eyes, and spoke, his
heart overflowing with longing for her who was brighter and more
cheering than any flower.
"Ma'am," the fox called out, smiling at the vixen, "You musta' been
rollin' in skunk cabbage or something, 'cause you sure do reek awful
fierce! I just thought I'd leave these flowers here so you could roll
around in them instead and cover up the stink!"
After the last word was out of his mouth, he realised what he'd said
and had already started running away as fast as he could, the vixen
running after him, her ears back, snarling, growling, yipping out all
sorts of foxy curses at him and snapping at his tail!
The fox sat alone on the roof of a hen coop, didn't have any appetite,
hopped down and ran in now and then, making the hens cackle and squawk
in fright, just for the form of the thing. He looked up at the moon,
he tried to tell the moon all his troubles about the vixen and not
being able to say how he felt. Instead he spun the moon a wild yarn
about some mad furriers wanting to make him into a coat and how he'd
bitten their ankles and given them all rabies.
But all the foxes talk to the moon when they're lonely or sad, he's a
good listener and even has some good advice. But with all the foxes
of the world telling him their secrets, he's the one person they can
never lie to. And so the moon shrugged off the yarn, not wanting to
be bothered with a bunch of lies.
The next morning, he thought he'd try again, one last time. He didn't
know what to do, all full of trembling and trepidation, the poor fox
slunk over to the vixen, his ears down and his bellow low to the
ground. He tried to give her the sweetest smile he could, but she
wasn't having any of it. As soon as she saw him, she jumped on him
and bit him right on the shoulder.
And that was it.
He was fed up. He'd fallen in love with her and just ended up
humiliated and bitten and morose. No woman was worth <em>that</em>
trouble. "Alright, you fleabag, I don't need this! You can hate me
all you want, 'cause you've given me nothing but grief and I'll hate
you until my teeth fall out and my tail drops off!" So the fox felt,
and so he tried to shout.
Instead all that came out was, "I love you. I love you. I love you.
I tried so hard to say it and I just didn't know how."
The fox realised what he'd actually said as soon as he felt the vixen
come up close and lick over his muzzle, nosing tenderly down his
chest.
And so they ran through the fields all the night long, talking. He
still couldn't tell her how he felt, at least not the second time.
But the body language and all the licking kind of gave his true
feelings away, even if all all the sweet nothings he whispered into
her ear were jaunty comments on her grooming and intellect and
profound lack of either one.
Eventually, by and by, they joined in whatever passes for matrimony
among lawless beasts, and she'd finally taught him how to tell enough
truth that he could manage to say "I do" on the day of their wedding,
and tell he he loved her at least once a night after that.
