Where she links dead foxes with croissants
Today I drove over a dead fox on the A 404.
I was driving my Austin 7 and going about 60 mph and, well, I’m a complete wimp about these things. The problem is that the fox was right in the middle of my lane and I didn’t have the time or space to swerve around it. I didn’t have a choice but to straddle it hoping my wheel base was wide enough and my clearance was high enough that I wouldn’t drag, smush, squish, or otherwise attach the fox (or worse – bits of the fox) to my mini.
It was a big fox.
Poor innocent fox.
Stupid A 420.
I should write a letter!
There should be fences! All the foxes, badgers, pheasants etc. should be relocated away from roads!
I looked in the rear view mirror to see the fox still in the middle of the road and everyone one behind me driving normally.
Am I the only one having problems with killed foxes on roads?
Maybe the British collective consciousness weighs heavily on the dead fox idea. Let’s face it, historically foxes have not had an easy time frolicking around in lush woodlands, sleeping out in a verdant and sunny meadow for any longer than three minutes before some pack of dogs and hunters set on it, chase it down with fanfare bugles and a hearty “tally ho, what”, drag it out of any hole or den it might try to hide in and rip it to shreds.
Maybe the fox intentionally hurled itself under a car.
Wouldn’t blame it.
Had to lose myself in retail therapy and buttery croissants for the rest of the afternoon.