The Irish Red Fox: Seeking Sanctuary While Facing Evictions

It’s 3am. You’re startled awake by a loud screech outside in the night. Frightening, like the wail of the Banshee. “Oh for God’s sake”, you think as you turn over in bed and press your pillow over your ears. “It better not be leaving filth in my garden”. You try to go back to sleep. You’re annoyed. You hope they stop screaming out there. You have a busy day at work tomorrow. You need to be on the top of your game. 

But here’s the thing, those foxes, with those blood curdling screams, are busy too. They’re on important missions tonight. It’s the male, warning other foxes off his territory. It’s the vixen attracting a mate. Or is she calling out for her cubs? They’ve just started leaving the den. Not even two months old. Her cubs don’t have high chances of surviving past their first year. And she’s worried. She’s worried that her babies are in danger. She is a mother, after all. No one will take care of them if she doesn’t. Humans? With their cars and their headlamps? Well they aren’t exactly always her friend.

My Grandfather was though. His name was Kevin. Soft, grey-haired, bespectacled, a life-long Boxer dog owner. He loved foxes. “Just poor oul’ dogs at the end of the day.” Over the years, a home was founded for them. In the thick brush at the end of the big hill, over the back wall of Grandad’s Co. Mayo home. He would feed them, during the cold months. Generations of them. For decades, vixen after vixen, litter after litter. And they knew him. They knew the sound of his voice, his footsteps in those big green welly boots sloshing through weather-soaked ground, his little beckoning whistle into the cold air letting them know that dinner was served. He was kind to them, compassionate. He saw living souls in those green glowing eyes staring back at him by torch light. They were the most domesticated wild animals I’ve ever seen.

When Grandad died, we carried on feeding his foxes as long as we could. Until we couldn’t. Until their home wasn’t their home anymore. Planning permission granted after years of a vague, heavy haze of the impending. A good plot of land. We knew it was coming, and yet the day it was announced, that painful blow felt unexpected. Not only had we lost a final connection to Grandad, but his foxes had lost their haven. The field was to be dug up, and their den mined. Of course, in a housing crisis, apartments must be built, homes must be created. Except a home already existed there. The residents were evicted. Left homeless. Not treated as living souls. Not even treated as pests. Treated as disposable. An inconvenience. All those generations, whose mother’s had shown gratitude for Grandad’s kindness – and leftover lamb from Sunday dinner – by sticking around. Trusting him. Trusting that that den was safe for her cubs. Gone. Moved along to the next place where they’ll be viewed as an unwelcome addition. Taking up space. Spreading disease. Making noise.

Those mothers are everywhere across this country. On the fruitful farmlands of Co. Roscommon, hidden between dense trees in the Wicklow woodlands, treading the cold concrete streets of Cork city. And rustling in the shrubs of your suburban garden. Yes, they make noise. Yes, they dig in rubbish. And yes, they might even leave “filth” on your freshly cut grass. But they are living, breathing animals. They are mothers and fathers and babies. But they are beautiful, native Irish mammals that are deeply intertwined with our cultural heritage. The red fox deserves a deeper, more profound respect for their role in nature. They deserve to be protected.

They deserve a home.