When I was young, my father would frequently regale me with stories about foxes. He was a conductor on the old Dominion Atlantic Railway through the Annapolis Valley and often saw them on the dyke lands as his train passed through.
For several years, his favourite subject was one fox who had the company of a small white dog, and together they romp through my memory to this day in my father’s stories. Years later, I found out other Kentville railway men had brought home tales of this dykeland odd couple, and some of their children knew and remembered with me.
I mention this because I’m absolutely certain there will be children now and children to come who will hear, tell, and remember stories of Sweet Pea. Foxes of my past came to mind when I heard in January that this most popular of all residents at the Hope For Wildlife facility at Seaforth had died. There was something about this little lady, crippled in her first year, that needed to be told. My intention was to do that telling here, but then I received a poem from Hope For Wildlife volunteer Karla Henderson that says everything I could, and more.
Run Sweet Pea, Run!
This is the time of year you most notice a fox,
a wily orange blur past white snow and dark spruce
writ large in our consciousness:
Kit. Swift. Cape. Silver.
Cunning King in Luke 13.
Vulpes vulpes for the scientist.
Reynard for the English folklorist, Regin or vixen for the German.
Disney caricatures for Robin Hood and Maid Marion.
The Fox! In Stravinsky’s Renard, and barter for the Voyageurs.
These are people’s foxes.
But you, Sweet Pea?
You’ve made us fox-people for nine years.
A jetsam orphan on the Eastern Shore, bedding down
on wild pea under a boardwalk;
a Shepherd is your second foe,
rickets, your third, and you lose a leg.
Amid this chaos, you must wonder Is this life? Is anybody there?
Hope arrives with meat and mice and might
and before long, the word gets around of
a little orange piñata brimming with treasures.
Oh! The hats you don:
Mama tutor to young kits,
patient for the most part with all those foxes in boxes.
Star attraction for old and young
For several years, his favourite subject was one fox who had the company of a small white dog, and together they romp through my memory to this day in my father’s stories. Years later, I found out other Kentville railway men had brought home tales of this dykeland odd couple, and some of their children knew and remembered with me.
I mention this because I’m absolutely certain there will be children now and children to come who will hear, tell, and remember stories of Sweet Pea. Foxes of my past came to mind when I heard in January that this most popular of all residents at the Hope For Wildlife facility at Seaforth had died. There was something about this little lady, crippled in her first year, that needed to be told. My intention was to do that telling here, but then I received a poem from Hope For Wildlife volunteer Karla Henderson that says everything I could, and more.
Run Sweet Pea, Run!
This is the time of year you most notice a fox,
a wily orange blur past white snow and dark spruce
writ large in our consciousness:
Kit. Swift. Cape. Silver.
Cunning King in Luke 13.
Vulpes vulpes for the scientist.
Reynard for the English folklorist, Regin or vixen for the German.
Disney caricatures for Robin Hood and Maid Marion.
The Fox! In Stravinsky’s Renard, and barter for the Voyageurs.
These are people’s foxes.
But you, Sweet Pea?
You’ve made us fox-people for nine years.
A jetsam orphan on the Eastern Shore, bedding down
on wild pea under a boardwalk;
a Shepherd is your second foe,
rickets, your third, and you lose a leg.
Amid this chaos, you must wonder Is this life? Is anybody there?
Hope arrives with meat and mice and might
and before long, the word gets around of
a little orange piñata brimming with treasures.
Oh! The hats you don:
Mama tutor to young kits,
patient for the most part with all those foxes in boxes.
Star attraction for old and young
who chant your name up the drive with great anticipation.
Favourite resident for volunteers searching for your acknowledgement,
carting your cuisine closer: Oh, hello, you greet them as gently as your footfall.
A fugitive, three times busting out of Dodge; we fret daily, nightly: Is she back?
Mostly, though, you rescue us―
From thinking that society and nature have nothing in common.
From thinking there is no such thing as love at first sight.
Thank you, fearless little friend.
Long may you run!
Karla J. Henderson
January 2010
In my dictionary of literary terms, I use the term Ode to describe a serious but lyrical poem of high praise. Certainly, under my definition, what Karla Henderson wrote here is an Ode, which is only fitting. Sweet Pea, the little fox from Seaforth, was indeed owed a lot.
Favourite resident for volunteers searching for your acknowledgement,
carting your cuisine closer: Oh, hello, you greet them as gently as your footfall.
A fugitive, three times busting out of Dodge; we fret daily, nightly: Is she back?
Mostly, though, you rescue us―
From thinking that society and nature have nothing in common.
From thinking there is no such thing as love at first sight.
Thank you, fearless little friend.
Long may you run!
Karla J. Henderson
January 2010
In my dictionary of literary terms, I use the term Ode to describe a serious but lyrical poem of high praise. Certainly, under my definition, what Karla Henderson wrote here is an Ode, which is only fitting. Sweet Pea, the little fox from Seaforth, was indeed owed a lot.
Long may she run!
