foxes

I have no power. There is only a certain amount of juice left in my computer, and then – well, as long as there’s plenty of kitten formula (and coffee) Havana and I will be fine.

The neighbors haven’t lost their power. They have twinkling lights and humming machines and laughter on the lawn. They also have a vintage camper that looks, at least to me, like a shiny silver bullet. They have dogs that bark incessantly in a lackadaisical sort of way – exactly like parodies of rich people speak, except with woofs. They sometimes have other animals in their yard but I think their tale of a family of small foxes that eats out of their hands and reads Martha Stewart Living to be entirely fabricated.

Alright, the reading part was perhaps uncharitable – but I spent the better part of two hours shifting on my feet, squinting at a hole about six feet away, being told I wasn’t looking hard enough. For the foxes. For the entire fox family, who enjoyed insouciantly popping out their furry little orange heads and blinking in the sunshine.

They never appeared.

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