By Peter Anderson
The black fox, which is really a red fox, came by again this morning. Members of the red fox species – a misnomer as it turns out–may be gray, silver, sometimes tinted blue, and, most dramatically, moonless midnight sky black. I know the black fox is a red fox because it has a white tip on the end of its tail.
I also know why the black fox is here and why it keeps coming back. This fox smells duck. On previous visits, it may have spied its prey, potentially a very succulent prey at that. Our ducks were a gift from my wife’s brother, a rancher in the Animas River Valley, who worried, quite frankly, if they would survive our ignorance of fowl behavior. But they managed well here, setting up house in the relative safety of our growdome greenhouse, while Uncle Johnny’s ducks north of Durango met with misfortune via several red-tailed hawks.
Our ducks are Rouens, a heavyweight as far as domesticated ducks go. Think of the Rouen family as gussied-up mallards whose roots are traced back to France, which may explain their unusual breeding behavior. They are not known as prolific egg layers and we wondered at first if they knew how to make that happen. Throughout the winter, they appeared to be celibate. Then the drake, also known as Sir Francis, or Fronnck as I like to call him, seemed to be coming into his own. His technique was different; he would mount the hen, also known as Ruida (name derivation: ruido, which means loud in Spanish) and push her head under water in our make-do greenhouse duck puddle/pond until she consented, a technique that struck me as decidedly French in a Marquis de Sade sort of way.
Apparently, he got the deed done. Ruida has been devoted to her nest for the last month, sitting on a dozen or so eggs and becoming increasingly grumpy and aggressive. “She’s just a bundle of hormones, “ says my wife Grace. Ruida no longer emerges from the greenhouse for her daily walk – too busy nesting – though Fronnck still makes his daily pilgrimage to the glass door on our deck where he checks up on his reflection. Apparently, he perceives this imagined drake as a better looking date who threatens to come a-courtin’ his hen any day now. So far, Fronck has kept his competition at bay.
But the black fox may be more than he can handle. These days, Fronck seems oblivious to the evolving domestic scene, enjoying his solo walks more than he did his coupled outings with a decidedly vocal and domineering hen. How quickly he has forgotten her.
I am painfully aware of the potential for a grisly scene in the backyard. Checking on Ruida and her eggs has become a daily ritual for my two daughters. Clearly, decisive action needed to be taken this morning. “I see you, fox,” I yelled at our carnivorous backyard stalker who was clearly casing the joint.
That was enough to scare the black fox off for now, but he left us with many questions. Will Ruida get her eggs safely hatched? Can Fronck avoid the clutches of a prowling predator? Will he be able to defend his hen and, perhaps, his progeny? Will Grace and I erect an electric fence in time to fend off our hungry neighbor? And even if we do, will a few volts and some barbed wire be enough to discourage a sly stalker on the prowl?
Stay tuned.
