The quick brown fox

The task I set myself should be evident from the last line of this little story:

All the other foxes of her family were red, but she was brown. This alienated her, but she was fast – they could not deny that – even though she looked so…dull.

There was some prejudice in her skulk (for that is what a group of foxes is called). When a chicken or pigeon or squirrel was shared, it was she who was last to take her turn.

Her brothers and sisters (five) did not shun her as such, but there was a likeness that she could never share. She was odd and that was that.

So she took to minding her own business, exploring the city and its dingy gardens on her own at night and it was doing just this that led her to discover, down a thin maze of alleys, the Butcher’s backyard.

This was a treasure trove, the bins at the back were stuffed full of delicious trimmings. She could smell them clearly.

But above this delicious stink was also the fearful stench of the guard dog, that kept watch in the yard. A black, muscular beast with a mouth overstuffed with teeth.

He was fat with his diet of treats, but savage too. He would tear her to pieces in seconds.

So she did as she always did when her brothers and sisters squabbled over the food. She waited.

And surely, as ever, there came a peace. The dog curled up and slept.

She stood still in the dark and watched his snoring, he lay directly between her and the world of delicious entrails.

A summoning up of courage, her heart banging out a strident rhythm, she ran. Her fur rippling, the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

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