Reynard The Fox

Hunting is a coward’s pastime. In a world with boundless opportunities for amusement it’s detestable that anyone would choose to get thrills from killing others who ask for nothing from life but the chance to remain alive.

  • Roger Moore

I often see foxes around our estate, especially cycling in the pre-dawn gloom on the way to work. I suspect it’s the same fox I pass, as I go off to start my shift and he or she trots back to the den after a long night spent rooting in bins and chasing cats. You could get blase about it, but I’m always slightly awed by the sight of this genuinely wild animal, one not that far removed from its wolf origins, carelessly wandering through an utterly domesticated place as if we, with all our machines and nonsense, were hardly there. They’re just trying to live, and we should let them get on with it. Nothing makes the working class chip on my shoulder gain in weight and sizzle in the deep fat fryer of indignation like the sight of a bunch of toff wankers on horseback, rampaging through the countryside with their hellhounds in tow, looking to slaughter a fox. “Bloodsport” they call it.

I used this drawing to mock-up this cover:

Foxes Unearthed (Lucy Jones)

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