Fantastic Mr Fox – Wuff With The Smooth

Just when I was thinking my life had achieved a welcome plateaux of normalcy, two strange things happened on the same day.

On Friday past, I was sitting where I am now, in front of the computer battering away at the keyboard. I kept glancing outside into the eye of the storm; if you remember, the weather on Friday was tara bad with swirling winds, biting hail and even big, fat snow flakes. Glad to be on the warm side of the window looking out, I briefly considered but then immediately rejected, the idea of a walk at lunch time. No, the warm side of the window will do nicely, I told myself and off I went to turn the heating up full boot.

Moments later, I was back in the hot seat, battering away at the keyboard again. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I happened to glance over my shoulder. Waffle was sitting in his usual spot on the rug and as usual, he was staring full in my direction. In reflex, I made a face at him, baring my top teeth and wrinkling up my nose – the very face a wean might make after declining to share their Skips.

After that, things happened very quickly. No sooner had my face relaxed into its habitual beatific countenance when Waffle sprang to his feet and started barking and growling in my direction.

“F…” I tried to say as I too erupted upright, pushing my seat back and at the same time, pulling the cap off my head and flinging in his direction. But the Waff was quicker, easily dodging the missile.

“Who do you think you are, you wee…” I roared, finding my voice at last and lurching towards him.

Realising he had acted outside the essential in-house etiquette, Waffle dashed past me in a hairy blur before I could even think of lashing out with a stocking sole.

“And don’t come back!” I called after him, as he disappeared through the kitchen doorway. Little did I know but that ‘And don’t come back!’ would come back to haunt me.

Sitting down again after retrieving my hat I furrowed my brow in consternation. What had just happened? I made a face at the dog – something I’d done a million times over the past two years – and then he vented his annoyance at me via a succession of loud, rapid-fire barks and growls – something which had never happened before. But at me? ME? To say I was affronted at the cur’s uppity, presumptuous impudence would have been putting it mildly. Putting it exactly, my head was astray with rage.

Reluctantly, I returned to my work and tried to quell the bitter bile of venomous fury.

Half an hour later, I’m happy to report, the beatific countenance had returned although Waffle had not. So I went to look for him, not out of any lingering guilt that I had gone off the head but more to check that he hadn’t shat on the sofa or started chewing curtains – one never knows what loveable little Waffie will get up to next! It turned out, he was in his bed, curled in a ball, looking as if the world had ended and he’d hadn’t been invited to the party.

“Eff you,” I said and went back to work.

Not 60 seconds later Waffle, thick to the point of perfection, trotted into the room and dropped a tennis ball at my feet. This time, I resisted making a face. Instead, I took a deep, cleansing breath and went back to work.

Circa 5pm when the week’s work was done, I decided I’d held a grudge for long enough and shrugged into my hoodie and picked up his lead. This, as everyone knows, is the universal signal for ‘WE’RE GOING FOR AN EPIC WALK!!!” At least, that’s what I discerned from Waffle’s reaction, who started yelping and yowling and hopping about on his hairy hind legs like some kind of freaky kangaroo.

“Come on, then, you wee bugger.”

The evening having cleared, it was still cold so we set off at a brisk pace, attempting to generate a little heat.

Waffle did what Waffle usually does when we’re out on a walk, which-is-to-say, enjoys an initial pee that a Clydesdale would be proud of and then cocks his leg at every tuft of grass and twig for the next three miles pretending, I’m assuming, to pee because nothing actually comes out. We had set out into a tight headwind in the direction of a steep hill about a mile from the house and on the way, Waffle pretend pee-ed at least 400 times. Zigzagging back and forward for all this faux urination, he kept tangling the lead and for that reason, I stooped and unhooked it from his collar.

I was hardly upright once again before I noticed the fox crossing the field away to my right. He was like a splash of ochre paint against the green of the grass and as he trotted along, he held his head high as if scenting the air. He hadn’t clocked us yet as he was still moving in our direction and I realised this was because the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Suddenly, I could smell him. Musky and pungent and unmistakably wild, once recognised, the scent of a dog fox is never forgotten.

I found myself smiling at this sleek, red rogue, a fantastic mister fox if ever there was one, no doubt on the hunt for some unsuspecting farmer’s chickens. Then I found myself frowning. And then shouting. And eventually running.

If I had been able to smell the fox of course Waffle was able to smell him as well. Before I could say, “You’re wan hateful H of a dog,” Waffle was racing up the field towards the fantastic mister.

Ignoring my appeal to desist, the hound had entered the field and was bearing down on the fox before my shouting gave the game away. Stopping in its tracks, the fox appeared startled, as anyone or anything might, when there’s a hairy teddy bear bounding in their direction.

Mid-shout for Waffle to come back, I felt a jolt of fear stab my chest. Waffle, as thick as he is, was only intent on making friends. The fox however, as beautiful and wild as he is, is always intend on the hunt and as such, might consider the hairy teddy bear as a snack.

“WAFFLE!” I roared. “WAAAAAAFFLE!”

With Waffle rushing towards the fox and with the fox standing its ground, I had no choice: I started running.

To be continued…