Chocolay Foxes

The crows were unusually loud this morning; we hear them often, especially this time of year — but today they were excited, their vocalizations clamorous and close by. I didn't think much of it until early this afternoon, when one of our neighbors stopped by to tell us there was a dead fox alongside the road. "Again?" I demanded, mostly out of exasperation. Last weekend's fox pup had been enough; I wasn't happy about the prospect of yet another deceased fox.

But sure enough, just a hundred feet or so down the road from our house, there it was — a gray fox pup stretched out in the grass, its entrails strung out behind it, already blackened by the heat of the sun. Flies had arrived on the scene, but so had several dozen yellow jackets. The wasps crowded themselves onto the exposed flesh and viscera, their jaws tearing away at the muscle, and it was a decidedly disturbing spectacle.

 

The loud cawing and croaking we'd heard this morning was explained, as well: the scavenging crows had left several feathers behind. As for the fox, unlike the one I photographed last Sunday, this one had been killed on the spot: its belly had burst open and its jaw was smashed, culminating in a grisly stain on the pavement.

 

Dew still clung to the soft summer fur.

 

Not only had the fox's jaw been smashed, but it had also been skinned down to the bone. The scrape of the pavement had torn away the gums and flesh; it was a bizarre, haunting sight.

 

This fox, too, was still in the process of growing its set of adult teeth — but it was much further along than last week's fox. I don't believe they were in the same litter.

 

As I said in my last entry, I hate to see dead foxes. This is the time of year when young animals are becoming independent; as a result, many are hit on the road — skunks, raccoons, and foxes alike. It's a waste of life, and it's a reminder to slow down when you're driving.

Blue Eyes

This afternoon, some friends found a dead fox along the neighborhood bike path we so often frequent. They quickly let us know, and Steph and I walked out to meet them there. Just past a stand of bracken ferns, resting upon bearberry and reindeer lichen and star moss, was a gray fox pup. The body had been there for at least a day: raindrops clung to its woolly summer fur — the abdomen was bloated — the visible eye was a ghostly, nearly luminescent blue.

 

Gray foxes are abundant in our area. After the death of the gray fox last December, I was afraid they'd be gone from the neighborhood for good, but thankfully that was not the case. In March we saw two sets of fox tracks, their paths crossing — Steph and I began finding fox scat in our driveway and later on the bike path — and then, this summer, we'd see them, both adults and pups, crossing that same path. Sometimes they paid us no heed; other times, they'd stop and stare, and we'd stop and stare right back at them.

This pup, likely one of the handful we observed this summer, died along the path.

 

 

At first glance, no visible injuries appeared to be on the body, and the fox looked to have been in good health when she died. Her adult canines were just starting to poke through her gums; her claws were sharp, her fur — though the scraggly summer pelage — was still full and soft. I turned the body over, and it became apparent that the pup's pelvis was smashed, probably by the tire of a car. It's quite possible — and most likely — that she was hit on Main Street, not far from where the gray fox was hit last year. This pup dragged herself away from the road in what must have been an agonizing ordeal, only to collapse and die, several feet from the trail.

 

I hate to see foxes dead. They're a beautiful, fascinating, important part of the ecosystem, and it's heartbreaking to see their lives ended by the tire of a too-fast car. I am thankful, however, to have the opportunity to observe them — both in life and in death.

Neighborhood Gray Fox

Shortly after moving back to Marquette in July of 2011, Steph and I were treated to a sight that I will not soon forget: it was around sunset, and we both just happened to look out our living room window — there, trotting through our front yard, was a gray fox. I had never seen one before, and I marveled at how swiftly it moved, like a shadow through the deepening dusk. Later, when the snow started to stick, we'd see the fox's tracks in our backyard and along the neighboring bike trail.

This year, especially in the late-summer and autumn, we spotted the gray fox several times. We decided it was likely a female, as we'd heard that a gray fox was raising her litter just a few houses down the street. She'd pass by mornings and evenings, invariably using the same path; her movement was more catlike than canine, and she walked with confidence, always seeming to know exactly where she was headed and why. One August morning, as she trotted down the street back toward her den, she paused to sniff a piece of garbage in the road; she then turned, squatted, and urinated on it. It was a fascinating display of fox behavior that one does not normally get to witness.

Having the opportunity to observe a gray fox was a special one, and knowing that our yard was within a gray fox's territory was even more special. 

*      *      *

On Monday morning, I pulled out of our driveway and made my way through the neighborhood, headed to work. I crossed the Chocolay River and turned down another street — and that's when I spotted an animal, dead on the side of the road. It was gray-brown, with a bushy tail, and I hoped against hope it was a stray cat, or even a raccoon.  It wasn't — it was a gray fox.

I pulled over, then crouched down beside the body. A snowflake landed on her snout. Her entrails had burst from her belly, but in the chill of the night, she had nearly frozen, minimizing the gore. Without a second thought, I lifted the body, and cradling it in my arms, I put it in my car and drove back home. 

Upon my arrival, both Steph and I lost it. I cried and cried, kneeling over the body, petting the soft winter fur. It didn't feel like it was mine to touch, or look upon so closely. Here was a fox, presumably the same one who we'd see now and then, a wild animal living at the edge of town. And now she was dead, and it almost felt as if the family pet had died. This was the neighborhood gray fox — it was a gutting, horrible thought.

The body went in the freezer and I went to work. I tried not to think about it, but the gray fox and her death dominated my thoughts for the remainder of the day.

As of this writing, a few days later, I still haven't fully recovered. I think of all the roadkill animals that I've seen and photographed; some of them affect me more than others, but this was the first time I was ever reduced to sobbing. It is, of course, because this animal was familiar to me — it wasn't just another anonymous raccoon on the side of the highway.

Today I decided to start working through some of my grief — in doing so I would begin to honor the life of this gorgeous, remarkable animal. The gray fox came out of the freezer this morning, and this afternoon, I photographed her. She was still very frozen: her front legs stuck straight ahead, and her nose, which had been pushed against the inner wall of the freezer, was off-center. Her eyes were frosted with ice.

The resulting photographs are haunting, disturbing, and beautiful.

 

 

 

Perhaps this gray fox is not the same one we observed. Time will tell: a winter storm is about to hit our area, and any tracks left in the snow will help answer lingering questions. Regardless of whether or not this fox was the neighborhood fox who called our yard home, I will grieve for her.

See also: Young Creatures, from July 11, 2012.

Young Creatures

I do a whole lot of driving, and I'm always afraid that I'll witness an animal get hit by another car. It's happened before, and it's an awful feeling; you can't tell the other person to brake, nor can you make them swerve, and you become helpless and powerless, left only to look away when the collision takes place. Similarly, one of my more prominent fears is that after braking for an animal, or persuading it to cross the road, I'll come back later to find it dead.

That's what happened yesterday evening, to one of Steph's coworkers. A young gray fox was trying to cross Lakeshore Boulevard in Marquette – a slow, 25-mph stretch of road right in town – and it was obviously terrified and confused. She ushered it across the street, then continued on her way. When she returned, it was dead. Steph alerted me – it was a drop-everything-and-go sort of alert – and within minutes I was in town. The body was still warm when I arrived.

 

When I lived downstate, red foxes (Vulpes vulpes) were a far more common sight – alive as well as dead along the roadside. Here, however, gray foxes (Urocyon cinereoargenteus) seem to be more numerous. Sadly, they're hit quite often, as I've seen their bodies both in town and along the highway. I do see living gray foxes from time to time, though – there's one in our neighborhood, and occasionally I'll glimpse her trotting past our house in the morning. They're gorgeous creatures; the gray part of the name is a bit of a misnomer, because they're quite orange, too.

 

Gray foxes are a bizarre, unique animal, and I've always thought of them to be more primitive than other canids. Certainly, they are nothing like the domestic dog. In life, gray foxes are catlike when they walk; their muzzles are quite short, and their pupils become slits when they contract. Gray foxes also possess the amazing ability to climb trees. Here is a great video demonstrating this incredible skill. I did notice that this fox's claws were very sharp, just as sharp as those of a cat – likely to aid in vertical climbing.

 

What truly gave away this fox's age, however, were its teeth. Many baby teeth were still present, although a few adult canines could be seen poking through the gums. As the blood and misaligned jaws in this photograph depict, the fox was struck in the head and likely died instantly. 

A juvenile gray fox, however, was not the only young animal that I photographed yesterday. In the morning, Steph had alerted me to a few dead skunks along M-28, so I drove east to check them out. I passed plenty of turkeys, both toms and hens, feeding along the roadside, which I should have taken as a sign; I didn't end up photographing the skunks, and instead, I pulled over to check out a bird on the shoulder of the highway. It was a fledgling turkey, and not far from it was its mother, also dead.

Both turkeys had only just been hit; they had only just been scavenged, as well. The corpses were still warm, and their body cavities were devoured completely.

 

The fledgling turkey had been in an awkward stage of plumage when it died. Baby feathers remained in most places, while adult feathers were growing in on its tail and wings. None of the feathers had an iridescent shine; they were still mottled and brown, perfect camouflage for a young bird.

 

What surprised me the most was the relative size of the turkey's feet to its head. Turkey feet are huge! They have to be, for a bird that spends most of its time walking.

It's both ridiculous and dismaying to imagine a fox getting hit on a 25-mph stretch of residential road, or a turkey family getting plowed over, likely when taking a slow stroll across the highway. Right now, many young animals – especially skunks, raccoons, and foxes – are getting hit by cars as they wander away from their mothers and dens. It's a time to be cautious when driving, and to remember that young animals, so unsure and curious in this big world, can be very unpredictable.