My grandmother has a fox. It's her "pet" fox. He comes up on the porch and eats food that grandma makes grandad put out. Grandad isn't real hot about the idea, but they'll have been married 60 years in November, so he knows when not to argue. Her fox likes Red Steagall. Don Edwards is too nasal for foxes, according to grandma. She determined this by playing both CDs for the fox, and seeing how he reacted. I'm glad somebody is finally doing research on this important topic. She derives endless entertainment from this little creature, and spends no less than two hours telling me about him every time I visit.
Somehow, after a depression, a world war, two kids, four grandkids, and (thus far) five great grandkids, a small wild dog is the most exciting thing in her life. Maybe that will make sense to me in another sixty years.
