She Was Seen | The Story of the Smallest Fox Cub 5

Cute foxes on your wall?

The Smallest Fox Cub Story

Over the years I’ve met quite a few ‘wimps’. And no, I’m not talking about my fellow photographers. Animals have their underdogs too: the smallest, the weakest, the less fortunate. The black sheep, the wimp, or-in animal terms- the runt. Being a runt isn’t something humans invented. The difference is that we often try to soften nature’s rules. Out there, however, survival of the fittest still applies and unfortunately, runts rarely qualify.

Survival of the Cutest

I’ve met plenty of fox cubs that were… different. Too small, a crumpled ear, funny little face, an awkward wobble. Super cute, but sadly, nature isn’t particularly interested in the survival of the cutest.
If it were up to me, every single one of them would make it. Not only do I have a soft spot for foxes and an even bigger one for fox cubs, but tiny scruffy little creatures like these have a direct route to my heart.

For a long time, I wondered whether that was simply compassion for the underdog. I don’t think it is. Again and again, I notice the same thing:  There is something about these little misfits. As if they compensate for their tiny, imperfect bodies with enormous personalities. Somehow, they’re always the bravest.

One little wimp in particular has never left me. At first the size difference wasn’t even that obvious. It was in her huge eyes, so full of life and enthusiasm. I fell for her instantly. She could hunt, play, preen, and eat like there was no tomorrow. Practising for the day she’d grow up. Just look at her trying. Look at her go….

As her brothers and sisters grew, the difference became clearer. And more painful. Being smaller means less milk and less coot. Less food means less growth. And so the gap widens. While her siblings wrestled, she often just watched. Her tiny body could no longer keep up. But in those shining eyes, you could see her joining the game anyway.

Let It Go

There was nothing I could do. This is nature. And nature was, once again, unbearably cruel. So, I folded up my sentimental fool, dusted it off, tucked it away somewhere deep inside. I had to let go.

Then suddenly… Everything exploded into movement. Mom fox in da house! She was carrying an entire duck. Every cub charged towards the feast. Then, quite unbelievably… The duck started moving. My tiny little runt had somehow grabbed it. The duck was bigger than she was, yet there she walked with it. Pride could have been her middle name at that moment.
Somehow, she managed to keep her prize. She ate and ate and ate. I never knew that much duck could fit inside such a tiny fox. Eventually she waddled away, completely stuffed. Only to return a minute later, as if she’d realised this might quite literally be the opportunity of a lifetime. She kept eating until she was just short of exploding and curled up into a fluffy little ball while digesting her victory.

And my sentimental fool escaped once again. This was it. This meal would save her. Tomorrow she’d be at least duck-sized.

A Soul Bigger Than Her Body

But it didn’t. Although her enormous spirit stayed, it seemed as if she was getting smaller every time I saw her. One afternoon, I basically just sat there, while she did the same. With what little energy she had left, she observed everything happening around her. Her body was failing, but her curiosity wasn’t.

Suddenly, her eyes grew even bigger. For a moment it seemed she was looking straight through me. Then, without warning, she sprang to her feet, almost dashing through me. I turned around just in time to see her launch herself into an enormous leap after a dragonfly.
That afternoon I left with hope once more. That incredible willpower would carry her through. It just had to.

Writing powers

As a writer, you have the power to create your own story, and you get to decide how a story ends. I would have written her bigger and stronger. Romping with her big brother in the evening light. I would have let those extraordinary eyes witness thousands of new adventures. I would have let her master the perfect mouse pounce. Grow into a magnificent adult fox, still carrying that look. With eyes so beautiful that everyone would remember her. I would have watched her gaze at her own cubs with the same love her mother – and I- once looked at her. I would have let her grow old and wise and the source of a thousand more fox stories.

If only I’d been allowed to write this script, I would have written it beautifully.
If only I were the writer of everything, I’d straighten everything life has written crooked. But this little cub’s story was never mine to write. Her story is too short. But it exists. She has been seen.