The Fox And The Car In The Night..........

Hullo ma wee blog,

I never saw the fox until it was too late. I barely just had time to register its shadowy profile and the bushy tail flowing straight out behind in the headlights before impact. Although I hit the brakes hard I knew as I saw it that there was no way I could avoid hitting it. I hit it full on and, being on motorway at the time, was doing about 75 miles an hour. It never stood a chance and probably died instantly. If by some chance it survived it was finished off by the car following close behind on that busy Saturday night, but I'm pretty sure I killed it outright.

I've never hit an animal like that before. In thirty odd years of driving I could count how many small things I have hit on the fingers of one hand. It's always been a phobia of animal loving me, perhaps from childhood memories of a rare pheasant or even once a hare that dad killed while driving. Dad would always stop and check if the animal was injured and I remember once seeing him dispatch an injured something in the red glow of the rear lights. He always used the lead loaded cosh, prophetically called a 'priest' which he used when fishing, to kill any injured animal. I can remember his sigh, the clunk of the car boot being opened, a quick fumble for 'the priest' in his fishing bag and the sound of  him walking away to return a few moment later and put  it away again. He would close the car boot with a slow but gentle pressure that would press down the whole of the back of the car. {I remember being inordinately impressed with the strength of that gesture and tried to recreate it unsuccessfully many times until I was much older.}

 Whenever he hit a game animal it would always be put into the boot and taken home, not to a squeamish Mum, but to Gran Robertson, where it would go into the pot. It was this trait of his own childhood country upbringing that first showed me a newly dead animal in close up, laid out on the jade-green topped table of Grannies kitchen. I remember that first time, seeing in the bright kitchen light, being tearfully sad yet curious about the beautiful pheasant with its shining eyes, incredibly coloured feathers and blood-dripped yellow beak. Its black eyes seemed calm and yet sad at the same time, like it had been somehow cheated out of its life I suppose. I remember too being confused about how matter of fact, pleased even, Dad and Gran were about the destruction of this amazing creature and on asking being told that they were going to eat it. Although I don't remember my reaction, I imagine it would have been one of horror and I probably cried a lot more. I know Mum always found incidents like that disturbing and couldn't bring herself to look at the creature and would never take part in any meal that resulted. I was firmly on her side on that score although I would be equally curious about anything brought home in the future - and a good deal less tearful.

As I hit the poor fox that wet Saturday night a week ago, muddy water splashed up onto the windscreen and I realised that this must have come from its coat. Dad always told me not to brake if I was going to hit an animal. "Better to make sure if you can.", but I was never able to do that and anyway due to quick reactions and decent brakes I've missed a good few birds and rabbits over the years.  Even though I had started braking that night the impact was startling, something I'd never considered before, and I instinctively looked in the rear view mirror to see the body of the poor creature hit again by the car behind and thrown towards the roads central reservation. As the road was very busy I didn't stop but continued on, a pang of guilt deep in the pit of my stomach, guilt for the death of a beautiful animal and guilt for breaking Dads unshakable rule; if you hit something, make sure it's dead. Don't leave an animal that might be suffering. I told myself and my shocked lovely G that I had killed it instantly, it was too dangerous to stop and finally that if I hadn't killed it outright then the car behind certainly had, but part of me didn't want to be confronted by the result of my actions or the dead eye of that beautiful fox.

The car seemed to be handling properly although I watched it carefully the rest of that silent accusatory journey home and it wasn't until we got to the roundabout at the edge of the village that I heard a small scraping noise which told me that part of the plastic of the front bumper was hanging low. As it was late I parked up at the entrance of the drive and we walked up to the house and bed. The next morning I went to check on the car and found that the accident had caused quite a bit of damage to the front bumper, springing it out of its fixings and bursting it in two places, one of which was hanging low and caused the noise of the previous evening. So the car is off the road while I wait on my insurance company coming to fix it.

I've thought a lot about that fox in the last week. I have given myself a long silent version of the talking to my Dad would have given me for not stopping regardless of how bad the weather or busy the road, at least to try and confirm that the animal was dead. I've also given myself the talk where he would be much more supportive and conciliatory, where he said that the deed is done and that it was time to move on.  I've thought too about that pheasant on Grannies green table-top and the image of lingering regret the memory brings to me all these years later.

Guess I've not changed much.

see you later.