Wish i got a picture.
This morning, about a mile into what I like to call “a jog” and what my lungs like to call “a betrayal,” I had an unexpected run-in with a red-tailed fox. When I say “run-in,” I don’t mean he jogged alongside me for moral support and handed me a little paper cup of Gatorade. I mean he appeared on the sidewalk like some kind of nature wizard, casually carrying what I assume was a recently unemployed mouse. Breakfast, apparently.
Now, I’m not a mouse expert, but this one had that distinct “mid-chew panic” look — the look you get when you realize you shouldn’t have tried to cross a field without checking for foxes first.
So there we were: me, sweaty and confused; the fox, smug and snack-equipped. We had what could only be described as a Mutual Stare of Awkwardness. You know that weird moment at a party when you and a stranger both reach for the last cheese cube? It was like that, except he had a rodent hanging from his mouth and I was wearing spandex running shorts.
Then — and I swear I’m not making this up — a blue jay appeared out of nowhere and dive-bombed the fox. Like it was a World War II fighter pilot with a grudge. The fox ducked right, mouse still dangling, eyes still locked on me like I was somehow responsible for the sky-based assault. The jay didn’t let up. It kept strafing him like it had unresolved personal issues. The fox, with a look of “Can a guy eat breakfast in peace around here?” bolted across the street, still being pestered from above. I just stood there, mid-run, part of a weird little National Geographic episode happening live in front of me, without commercials.
So, to recap: fox with mouse, blue jay with anger issues, and me, the unpaid narrator of suburban wildlife drama.
Nature is wild, people. Literally.