The Foxes

I've told you about the foxes all over the place here in London, haven't I?
How at my old apartment, the elderly lady downstairs (who actually drove me nuts, but then we probably drove her nuts first), warned me to keep the lid on my rubbish bin (or top on the trash can) so the foxes wouldn't get to it?
How I laughed to myself and said right, yeah, that's a nice understated British way to say RATS.
How right after that, I saw my first fox, followed by my second and my third, and then I stopped counting?
Well, we've moved to fox city, folks.
They're all over the place here.
It's kind of eerie, actually, but original too.
There's a stand of unoccupied houses in front of us.
And a fox family has moved in there.
I kid you not.
They roam in and out of the broken windows there, sunning themselves on the roof, cleaning their paws in the daylight, a whole bunch of them. There's always one out there.
It's like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story.
The Foxes. By Edgar Allen Poe.
What do they get up to in the dead of night?
Our bedroom window looks out over the unoccupied houses. Which I know sounds trashy. But is actually kinda cool.
When I get up, first thing I do is look out the window and check what the foxes are up to.
This morning, one was out there, scratching his/her butt, when I opened the curtains.
He/she looked up at me, and stopped scratching.
Some of them look pretty unhealthy -- scrawny and mangy.
Yeah, some of them have mange, my neighbor told me.
Okay.
One of them walked into our garden last night.
But then ran away.
They're more scared of you than you are of them, my neighbor said.
Okay.
My husband says there are so many because they stopped hunting them here, the land of the fox hunt.
Okay.
The Foxes. By Edgar Allen Poe.
Every day.
Every night.
Right outside our bedroom window.