The City is No Place for a Fox

by Naomi Colvin

Since Monday, I have found myself dreaming of dead foxes. They appear in parks, in lay-bys, in verges amongst green scrub – the normal resting places of urban foxes.

It’s an archetype I have some feeling for. I cheer when I see an fox haring across the road somewhere in zone one. I applaud the intrepid young creature who scaled the shard. They bring life back into the fabric of the city that likes to see itself as something apart.

Move further along and the parallels are startling: no one has sought to control urban fox numbers since 80s; they feed off the detritus of consumerism. Their life expectancy is low: two years is about the most you can expect. From time to time, it pays to deny consensus reality, but the city is no place for a fox.