Purveyor of Tall Tales.

It’s war…

We have been invaded.

No really. For some time now we have been being visited by a family of foxes who seem to think our (until recently) burgeoning vegetable patch is their own personal sandpit.

We saved the radishes, the onions – it’s best not to mention them to G – are remembered still, the carrots have gone to a better place and the spuds are holding the line.

It’s a cruel heartless war that our root vegetables are fighting against Basil’s army.

In addition to the previously mentioned vegicide the foxes make the most god-awful wailing, now everyone who knows me knows a gnat’s fart could wake me up but these foxes are so loud they actually woke G up.

That’s right G. G could sleep through a Slipknot concert whilst a thunder storm raged over head on a bed made out of the mosh-pit.

‘Nuff said. It’s loud.

Why, you ask, have I not dealt with these nocturnal napoleons?

Thing about these foxes, the really annoying thing, is they’re a family and that means cubs: fox cubs are unbelievably cute.

To illustrate: I got up last week to see the cubs playing in the garden next store, two cubs were playing with the football (the ball was nearly the same size as they were) whilst their brother ran the length of next door’s decking, flipped himself off the end turning a full 360 and landing on his back on the grass.

I swear that cub was giggling like maniac as he gazed up at the sky.

Then I wake up this morning (having been kept up through most of the night by them wailing and howling) to find they have strewn the, admittedly ineffectual, plastic border that surrounds the vegetable patch across the lawn.

Sometimes you need to draw line in the sand, or the lawn, oh never mind you get the point.

But I have a plan, a necessarily non-fatal, non-harmful plan (G is border-line hippy) but a plan that is well as cunning as a…urm…fox.

We have secured (and by we I mean G) a green box, harmless in appearance and purpose; it emits a high frequency sound that only foxes can hear (and apparently loathe). Then they go away.

That’s the theory.

That’s the theory but I can’t help but remember that this sounds suspiciously like the sound dog owners use to call their erstwhile pets to them…

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