The quick brown fox wasn’t really brown at all, and he didn’t like being called “quick.” He preferred nimble. And his coloring was more reddish* than brown, with white on his chest. As for those lazy dogs? Sure they were sluggish, but lethargic Rottweilers are still a tad scary. Even if the Rotties ate early bird dinners and saw the veterinarian regularly for high blood pressure, they’re Rottweilers not Pomeranians.† Best to avoid them altogether, if you’re a fox.
You may wonder why the fox was anywhere near the dogs in the first place, as foxes and dogs are not known for prolonged sessions of elbow rubbings and afternoon teas. The fox would like an answer to that, too. There he was, minding his own business, chewing on barbecued muskrat and perusing the latest issue of Burrow Quarterly, when he suddenly appeared in a field with two dogs. He immediately cried foul play.
The fox was a proud father of five cubs, two boys and three girls. You can imagine the activity level of his hillside burrow. He was allowed a little R&R each week: his vixen took the litter to a burrow next door to play bridge every Wednesday. If he was gone when they got back, he’d never hear the end of it.
He doubted very much that his vixen would understand. Somehow “I vanished from the burrow and appeared by magic in a field with a couple of dogs,” didn’t sound believable. Who could blame her?
Yet here he was. Two dogs looked up at him with half-opened eyes. The one on the left had gray on his muzzle, and the one on the right had old scars on his ears. Battle wounds? Uh oh.
The fox stared at the dogs. The dogs stared back. He wasn’t sure if they looked at him with malice, or out of boredom because they had nothing else to do. After all, what sort of pastimes did Rottweilers pursue in an empty field? Perhaps they feigned interest in him to throw him off guard. Either way, he was not keen to stick around and find out. Twas better to err on the side of not-getting-mauled than to be cocky and return home with one less leg than he left with.
He moved his left paw. The dogs twitched their ears. He would have to be fast, faster than the two war weary Rottweilers. If he was going to see his vixen and cubs again, he needed to be sly. Luckily he was a fox, and slyness came naturally.
He took a deep breath and swallowed.
And the rest, as the they say, is history.
*To be more precise, his coloring was more like Indian Red or Pantone 1795 U.
†Which is not to say that Pomeranians are not frightening in their own right, but the fox would be more amused by a yipping minion of them than he would be scared out of his wits.
The author would like to note one more thing. It is not my intention to unfairly stereotype the Rottweiler as an aggressive and unruly breed. Why, the Rottie can be as docile as a kitten under anesthesia. However the fox of this story, who was taken from his home in a manner we can only characterize as mysterious, would find the dogs intimidating. He was, as the story says, caught off guard, and therefore assumed the worst of the pair. The reader should know that the Rottweilers never intended harm for the fox, they wanted to invite him to a friendly game of croquet. They were cultured and civilized dogs who barked and growled in tones that would please royalty, and felt that the pangram (“The quick brown foxed jumped over the lazy dogs.”) painted them cruel and stupid.
© Courtney Kirchoff August 23, 2010. All Rights Reserved.