There is a fox that lives among the environs of the small farming village called Karaağaç in Northern Cyprus. The settlement is perhaps as old as civilization and sits in the higher elevations with commanding views of the Mediterranean sea. This is a Cypriot community at heart, composed of small farms that stand amongst a few summer villas. It is a place that moves slowly by city standards, but populated enough to make it threatening to a shy creature like the fox. The resident villagers tend their small farmsteads in the morning then retreat as the sun climbs into the shadows of overarching grape vines or cool olive groves. Except for the wide expanse of sea and mountain views, a football pitch long since lapsed into dust, little else exists to draw-in the curious. There is the spring, adorned with arches in the style of an ancient ruin, accessed only by way of steep roadways kept secret by the village. There is a dirt bike track used by a group of local men who race themselves around an infinite loop. And there is a ruined shelter once occupied by a troop of shipwrecked Venetians, now just a scattering of brick and stone. But these too are little talked about or known. The people live in isolation. The summer villas cloister like satellites in an arid space in which farmers see to their meagre crops and protect their property as they see fit. The world circles elsewhere.

Ancient wisdom has taught the fox to stay clear of the village, to remain much higher in the coastal mountain range that lies to the South, well above the long strip of coastal communities that dot along the Mediterranean Sea coast to the North. These mountains and jagged ridgeways keep the fox within the coolness of the higher air and safe from mankind. But on occasion, the fox does stray. Down from the mountain the fox do push into the peripheries, perhaps born out of a sense of curiosity, an exercise in freedom, or perhaps, the smell of lambing season.

Lambing season is a period in spring when young lambs are reared and then slaughtered. It was during one particular lambing season that one particular fox and his wife had come to the village. The fox instinctively knew she was heavy with a new family in her belly so it surprised the fox that she should choose to wander with him. Perhaps he thought she wanted to be together one last time before her attention would be commanded by the care of her newborn family. But more likely it was simply the smell of lamb and the idea of feeding on that sustenance. The fox didn’t know why, but these instincts caused him to press close to his wife. Their coats touched and formed one matted copse of orange and red fur. Their puffed tails bobbed behind them. They coursed through the grass together, toward the village.

The sheep paddock is a ramshackle bric-a-brac that a Turkish Cypriot farmer had established in the wallow of an old creek bed, just outside of the village. It lies off a dusty road that goes on to wind past a Turkish gravesite known as koy mezarlık. On their arrival to the village, the fox thought it made good sense to remain under a copse of pine on the ridge. Here they could wonder about the sheep. From this vantage point they could hear their bleatings. The fox could sense them, fat and stupid, within the shade of their paddock. They needn’t press on. They were safe here. Besides, to be close enough to hear the sounds from the paddock was proof of their bravery and made this a good day for two foxes. But his wife didn’t stop. She didn’t rest close to him under the shade of the whispering pine trees. She pushed past him. Her belly pressed close to the ground. Down the gulley she pushed forward like a diving bird. He watched her. It’s a show he thought and remained where he sat. He sat and watched. From his point high on the ridge he saw the sun sink over the sea and slowly bed down in its den of soft pink and red glowing light. The fox watched and waited until, luck would have it, an owl came to land. As it was evening, the owl should have been on its hunt. To land so foolishly close, it must have been old and ready for death and without hesitation the fox made it so. It fluttered its wings twice rapidly, a third time slowly and then lay still in his mouth, the fox could feel its body limp and tasted its blood spill onto his tongue. The lovely thing about eating a bird is the sense of flight it evokes. As the fox ate his owl, he felt as though he were lifted over the miles of Cyprus pines. He savoured the taste, closed his eyes and felt himself high above the ridge mountain. And then, there was the belly. He saved this to last. This owl’s belly had the special taste of snake, which the owl would have eaten previously, its venom harmless, but sharp on the fox’s tongue. And then, came the more subtle taste of the mouse, a mouse that the snake had surprised and eaten whole. Fear still gripped the inside of the mouse’s flesh. The feed was glorious enough for the fox that he chose to forget his wife’s absence and drifted himself off to sleep. The fox is thought to be only a creature of need and want and satisfied now he would have no need of anyone, or anything. To have a full belly was good. As the fox slept the gloaming of sun slowly extinguished and the presence of moonlight cast the clearing in phosphoresce.

It was the sound of barking dogs that woke the fox. Barking penetrated the evening and came from more than one dog, there were two both in close proximity. They were dogs, confirmed by the musky dog smell. Then the fox heard the approaching sound of a motorcycle, that foul smelling fast moving two wheeled creature that carried on its back a human. Below the clearing there the fox caught sight of the two dogs. The fox listened to their sniffing and nosing along the dusty road. Then a human’s voice cut the distance, “Leo,” it called. “Barney”. The fox peered out from his hideaway to see one of the dogs stop, just paces away. This dog was white, made whiter in the moonlight. He watched it turn and run toward the human voice, its curled tail bobbed as it ran back up the road. The other dog lingered on the roadway, looking back in the direction of the human noise. This dog was a copper, the same colour that streaked through the Cyprus ridge valleys, its coat whisped into sand coloured strands at the tail so that it caught the light of the moon like a spray. This dog was older than the clumsy white dog, a young adult, poised and aware. A beautiful dog, for any fox and easy prey. The dog turned back on the roadway and trodden away from the direction of the calling voice and the approaching motorcycle. It must have caught a scent, a scent that the fox had not detected. Sniffing the night the dog probed its surroundings as did the fox. Spring pollen, cedar bows, sheep dung, the flesh of an owl and a new smell. The fox could sense it’s own presence being discovered even as he sat still, not moving, not another breath. Invisible. The human on the motorcycle circled around the white dog. “Bad dog Barney. Bad dog.” came the sound of the human utterances muffled by the rumbling machine creature. The other copper coloured dog passed into the shadow of the wood, the fox appreciated this calculation, far more aware than the white pup named Barney who plodded back from the direction he had come. But the copper dog knew the art of vanishing well. The motorcycle human sped past up the road, his hair trailed behind him as the motorcycle rounded over the dusty hill and faded into the pines.

The fox was left with the moonlight, the sound of evening breeze, and the sudden sense of his wife’s absence. He sniffed the air and moved toward the smell of the sheep paddock. She would be there. Perhaps feasting. They could sleep together under the moon tonight he thought as he darted across the road and down the gulley lane. The road was darker here with the branches of wood shrouding out the moon. He felt something shift inside. Fear could course through a fox well before any occurrence of danger. It was this trip wire sense that caught him then. In the darkness he could see a form on the road, the flint of fur, the body of a fox, his wife. There she was, out in the open, too fragile not to be broken. The fox arrived panting over her, smelling, drawing in the air over his tongue, sensing the sources of danger. Something wrong, deeply wrong, her body was moving, but her eyes fixed closed. Back and forth she moved her paws in frantic bursts, as though she were running, back and forth, back and forth. He could see the sea forming in her mouth, open and gasping, open and gasping. I am here. The fox willed his presence onto her. To wake her from this possession. He scratched at her side, scratched like a digging to uncover her from this oblivion, to free her. To clear from this trapped affliction that was around her. He scratched faster now. Scratching paws were all the fox could offer, to at least tell her he was here, if she would only look to see. But she didn’t respond. She didn’t see him. She was gone. The fox’s legs scrambled him forward before the thought of running had fully formed, before the lights of a white truck flashed in their direction. Up past the clearing he ran. Up onto the ridge to higher ground. He didn’t stop until he collapsed onto pine needles. His chest heaved. He forced his eyes closed. Foxes aren’t thought to have memory. And yet, he knew he would never forget. Never forget. And so, the memory of that day would remain with the fox. Always.

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Northern Cyprus and Lannate Poisoning of animals By kyreniacommentator on April 9, 2015

“Lannate” is a trade name of a pesticide manufactured by DuPont chemicals. It is extremely harmful to humans, animals, birds and aquatic life as well as to insects. In the European Union and North America it is rated in the top category of toxic substances and its sale and use is tightly regulated. 2.5 g of Lannate, equivalent to one small sugar-lump, is enough to kill 100 Bonelli’s eagles, or 2000 blackbirds, or 6 medium-sized dogs, or 3 children or 1 large man. Because it dissolves easily in water it will also wipe out all life in a pond.

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The fox sniffs. The sounds of Karaağaç hang in the air, the sound of tractors, the splash of pools, the holiday music, the din of village life wafts through the pines and wards off only the most brave, hungry or wayward of foxes. The fox that lay crouched in the shadows of the village could smell human. This was a wayward fox now. Hungry, but not brave. Since its mate had died, the fox had remained close. Perhaps he was anticipating her return. He remained close, even having watched her lifeless body thrown into the back of a white pickup truck and vanished forever. But he stayed close. Sometimes he passed over that spot to take deep smelling draughts of the dust where she had laid. There was a time when he could still smell her presence, if only for a moment. One of Cyprus’ heavy downpours created torrents of rain currents that coursed down the rolling hills and collected any trace of what may have once been her presence. And yet he remained. He stayed within the stillness of the wood and watched the farmers rumble past. He got to know each one. But it was the farmer in the white truck that commanded his fox senses the most.

Overtime, the fox grew increasingly bone threaded. He moved slower, with more deliberation. There was less wonder in his world now. Sometimes he wouldn’t move at all and hid away from the high sun. Usually in the evening he followed a circuit. He’d lope around the sheep paddock, past the cow stables, along a high ridge that looked out across a canyon with a view of the sea and past the little house below the road. Often he would catch sight of the dogs that lived with a man and a woman among the overhanging garden. Their wagging tails were strange to the fox, perhaps he understood it to mean that they were saying to the humans, be happy. Be happy because we are happy. But this is unlikely. In Karaağaç the fox is not thought to understand such things. The fox recognised the scent of the two dogs from the road, but there was another, much smaller. This was a copper female streaked with coal coloured fur. The humans called her Lulu. She would sit near to them on the soft seats outside, but she rarely strayed far enough for the fox. His growing appetite caused the fox to consider each dog in turn. But he was tiring from the hunt. His instincts dulled. He was going away in spirit, he knew it. Even the pains in his stomach were fading. But still, he was a fox, and a fox in Karaağaç was a danger. Soon it came to pass that the fox found he no longer sought the views of the sea. He didn’t care for the breeze across the rocky expanse as he used to. He contented himself with watching the home below. This was his preoccupation. The lives of the occupants, dog and human, a familiar rhythm. He came accustomed to them and in a sense knew them. From time to time the fox might choose one of the dogs to track, he might watch the white dog called Barney take up the chase of a flashing lizard. Just the sight of the reptile and the dog would comb the spot, back and forth where the lizards would disappear themselves in the rocky wall.

Leo, the sandy dog, older than Barney, was well fed, and healthy. The fox had determined that this dog was careful, more inclined to remain close to the woman. Even when she swam in the blue pool, Leo would the walk the lengths next to her. If she lay on one of the sun beds Leo would lay on a sun bed too. The woman would stroke his fur, and speak and say, “You are my boy.” Or, she would say, “good dog.” These things were said in soft tones that caused the fox to wonder. A curious feeling would come over the fox, but only for a moment, it should be said, in Karaağaç the fox is not thought to feel such things. And yet these sounds must have caused something in the fox to command his attention and keep him in the shadow of the wood. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, why the fox may have thought would these dogs remain close to humans. The woman must be feeding them, and what is good for a dog, is good for a fox as well. Or, was it the man that prevents them from running with his motorcycle? But neither of these things the humans did would prevent the dogs from escaping the confines of the fence and stone wall. On the occasion of these escapes the fox would track them close, tasting the air with his tongue. But soon the roar of his motorcycle would come. That foul smelling noisy noisy thing that the man would charge and corral the wandering dogs. It was usually the white and the tan dogs that escaped. But once the small female dog had come. The dog they called Lulu, the one which was the size of a rabbit, had followed the tan dog on one of his escapes. He showed her where to find a heap of old human waste. The fox had moved close to the little creature, close enough to hear her rabbit panting, he sensed her excitement, to be on the trail, and the fox crouched close enough to smell her deeply. But the roaring motorcycle had come. It roared to life in the distance and then grew louder as it approached pushing the fox back into the wood, back into the safety of shadow. The fox understood why the dogs were compelled to the road ways. Wandering was a natural thing for an animal, and the scraps of food that could be found on the roadway was sometimes good flesh to eat, despite the smell. The fox knew this. and remained close. When the motorcycle would arrive with its noise and cloud of dust, the dogs wouldn’t seem terrified as they should, surprised to be discovered again perhaps, but they would lollop back to the home in a leisurely way. It was like a game to them it seemed, tongues lolling, yipping among themselves, the dogs would keep just ahead of the vehicle. The man would stop the motorcycle outside the home and the dogs would stream into the gate toward the woman who would bend down and run her hand across their coats as they arrived. She would say, “There you are. You naughty dogs.” When the fox heard the woman speak to the dogs it caused a quiet to fall over him, a settled feeling. It was a feeling that had once occurred at the warren up on the ridge of the mountain amongst the foxes he had left behind that afternoon, so long ago now, before that dark night. But foxes don’t really feel these things, not in Karaağaç. Even so, for some reason he remained close.

The fox was weakening by the day, he could feel his life ebb with each moon passing. New scraps on the road were no longer appearing, and those that he did find would be extinguished of nutrients from the sun and be little better than leathery stones. But there were the dogs. As the heat of the spring sun grew hotter, the dogs wandered less, he could see them from the woods panting and staying within the shade of the human veranda. The little rabbit dog would crawl under one of the straw chairs, the white pup would find shade under the winding staircase and the sandy dog, the one called Leo would remain close to the woman on the cushions of the seating. And there they would stay for long hours until the sun climbed down into the purple and pink sunset and cool.

In addition to the three dogs there came temporary visiting dogs. The fox would not have understood that the woman was known as a dog foster who would take in strays. These dogs would have been rescued by a local charity who collect animals lapsed into stupor by the Cypriot heat, a heat that would overcome any creature that strayed too far from the relative cool of the woods, or the shelter of an underground hollow. The fox saw that these visitors would come in all shapes and sizes, stay a week, a month and then were gone. But the three dogs familiar to the fox would remain. One day the man started to put fences up around the property. The fox knew that opportunities to encounter the dogs would come to an end. But the fence work was slow. Days passed. There was still a chance. The woman would watch from the shade and on occasion come out to test a section of fence the man had created. They would speak, and the work would stop until another day.

So while the fence remained unfinished the dogs would find openings easily. The heat of the early summer would steer them from wandering too far from the human shelter. But, there was still a chance for the fox. On one such occasion the dogs came up toward the fox. They were drawn up the rise, through the pines that surrounded the home and onto the road. The copper and sand coloured dog named Leo sniffed the air along the road. The fox rose to his feet carefully so as not to be detected. He positioned himself so that his muzzle hovered just above the ground. His belly grazed the forest floor. His back paws clawed into the ground. The whole body of the fox became coiled, ready to spring forward. Leo moved across the road in the direction of the fox. He stopped and sniffed the wind. The fox noted that the white pup named Barney followed in traipsing fashion nearby, but far enough back to be of no distraction to the fox. He watched Leo’s sandy tail bounce as the dog loped in the direction of the sheep paddock. The fox crept and took up behind the dog. He remained back far enough to keep concealed, stopping when Leo stopped, moving when Leo moved. In the sense that a hunter becomes one with its prey, the fox and the dog now tasted the same wind, gathered the same dust in their eyes and hungered in the same way. The scent of something along the road had caught the dog’s attention, he paused over a scrapp on the road. It looked to the fox like a piece of chicken, he could tell by the yellow rough skin and long yellow claw. It was strange to the fox he’d not detected such a morsel even now the smell was not like chicken. The fox waited in the shadow for the right moment.

Then the motorcycle roared to life in the distance, the fox’s time was running out. The dog named Barney turned and dove into the woods toward the home. But Leo didn’t follow. He listened to the approaching motorcycle and slipped noiselessly into the wood next to the road, the remains of the chicken in his mouth. The motorcycle roared past. The fox could see Leo lingering in the concealment of shadow. The fox remained still and waited for his moment. The motorcycle came roaring past again in the other direction. It faded as it returned to the house and then was silent.

The winds drifted in through the pines from the direction of the sea and concealed the fox’s scent. The fox knew he had his chance now as Leo returned onto the road and looked toward home. The fox craned his neck coiled back onto his haunches. Ready to strike then. This was the moment. But the fox paused. The sandy dog was panting there just below. He looked toward his home, but did not move. Then after a pause the dog stepped forward. He stumbled and lay down. The dog was panting, struggled for breath. Except for the rise and fall of his chest under the weight of the merciless sun he was otherwise still motionless. He didn’t move to the shade as the fox thought he should do. At last Leo got up again and moved forward in halting steps, a little farther this time. But again the copper dog stumbled and fell. He lay there, the fox followed close. This dog should be home or at least in the shade. And then, the shaking began. The fox had seen this before. It was the same shaking thing that had gotten hold of his wife. The thing that had shook her from the inside out was now upon the copper dog. The fox remembered his helpless scratching at her coat, trying to reach that affliction that had seized her, nothing to do but try. His presence was all the fox could have given her, he had remained for as long as he could remain, to be close, to take it away if only he could. So the fox remained in the wood, he had forgotten himself to the suffering he was witnessing before and now all over again a life was extinguishing before him.

It wasn’t long before the woman arrived in her car. The tires crunched to a stop. “Leo,” the fox heard her say, she ran toward the spot where the dog shook. Leo raised his head once and knew then that he was not alone. The fox could see he was not forsaken, but precious to someone. “My boy,” said the woman gently, running her fingers through the sandy coat. The shaking stopped.

The fox left that day. He returned to the higher altitude in the mountain. He never returned to Karaağaç.