The True Story of the Untethered Fox

I’m sitting in a coffeeshop in Buffalo, playing Scrabble with my buddy Dan. We’re at the back of the room, I sit facing the door, because you know, cowboys don’t sit with their backs to the door, and in walks this guy carrying a fox. Yeah, a fox, a silver fox like it’s a lapdog. I watch him walk in, and I can see that he’s not doing real well, his clothes are shabby, his face worn and weary, and I think, okay, so he’s got a pet. And then I notice the fox doesn’t have a collar or leash. This freaks me out.

“Hey D,” I say quietly, leaning over the Scrabble board. Dan looks up at me. “Check out that dude in line… is he carrying a fox?” Dan, no slouch in the streetsmarts department, calmly turns and looks over his left shoulder.

“Which guy?” He asks, as if I hallucinate wildlife all the time.

“That one there in the old Army jacket. See?” Dan looks again, turns back to his pieces and plays a “bingo” on me.

“It’s a cat,” he says in his best Deniro voice. Cat? Cat?? That’s not a fucking cat- that’s… but what does he know of foxes anyway? Dan’s from Queens.

“I promise you, D, that’s not a cat. It’s a fox.” He is choosing up his tiles and ignoring me. “And you know what? It’s untethered.” Something about my tone, perhaps my vehemence, makes an impression and Dan turns to look again.

“So, it’s untethered. He’s holding onto it.”

“First of all, it’s a fox. It’s a fucking wild animal. Second, it could be rabid, easily, it could have rabies. You wanna get bitten?” At this last point, Dan looks concerned- maybe I’ve dredged up some bad summer camp memory.

“It’s an untethered fox? What the fuck?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying! What kind of freak brings an untethered… fuck!” The guy is headed directly for us- the only empty armchair in the place is immediately to my right. “Here he comes.”

I cannot concentrate on my tiles at all and I play SAVING for 12 points. Foxman sits down, just six feet from us, and Dan makes an exaggerated show in watching the guy sit down and situate himself with his latté. I look over at the guy, then down to the fox in his arms, it’s definitely a fox, all pointy ears and ratlike snout. I can’t see his teeth, but there isn’t any foam around his mouth.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Dan says, looking straight into the guys eyes. It’s crazy Foxman and crazy Robert Deniro and I’m in the wrong movie.

“Yeah?” Foxman answers.

“What kind of dog is that?” I breathe a little sigh of relief that he didn’t ask about the guy’s cat, but I can tell from his tone that he’s baiting Foxman.

Foxman looks at Dan, measuring him, and replies “She ain’t no dog, Lucy’s a fox.” And gives Dan a pretty ugly Foxman glare, like, what the fuck kid, you don’t know a fucking fox from a dog?

I should say here that I love my boy Dan, but like Deniro’s characters, he’s a bit unpredictable in social situations. The glare won’t help things at all, so I interject.

“I never saw anyone keep a fox as a pet. Does she have the run of your house?” I ask, calmly, innocently. Foxman turns his glare on me. I’ve seen this look before and I’ve always suspected it was the look of derangement which immediately precedes violent sociopath behavior. I look again toward the door of the coffeeshop, mapping my escape route. Dan, provoking motherfucker, can fend for himself.

“No.” Foxman says in a you crazy cityboy voice. “She stays in a cage in the cellar.”

“But you have a tame fox?” Dan asks in his own voice, Deniro gone. For some reason I think of Dan’s mother, Marsha. Marsha is the prototypical helicopter mom and would be saying right now Danny, I don’t think you should be sitting in a coffeeshop where they allow untethered foxes in. Marsha is right.

“Oh, Lucy ain’t tame, watch out, she’ll bite you.” I wasn’t about to pet her, her fur was unkempt, matted. What I thought was silver was more likely dust from the cellar. I didn’t want to find out, I wanted to leave. I give D the hey, let’s cruise look. Dan refuses.

“So let me ask you this — ” Dan says, recapturing Foxman’s attention. Foxman nods, ready. Lucy snuggles her snout into the crook of his arm. She looks fairly harmless, but I will admit, I am no Louis Pasteur. “What makes you think it’s all right to bring an untethered fox, a wild animal, into a coffeeshop?” I slide my chair back, ready to spring to my feet and sprint toward the front door. What are the odds he’s got a gun too?

I look at Dan, locked into a resolute stare battle with Foxman and I notice he is leaning ever so slightly forward, a tectonic shift toward the dude.

“Sorry man, let me finish my tea and I’ll leave.” Foxman then proceeds to ignore us completely, sits back into the chair, sips his tea.

“I’m out.” Dan says as he plays his last tiles on me, winning the game.