The Fox Family

I said last year that England didn't really have a night noise, like Italy does. That here, even in busy London, it was the noise of quiet.
Wrong.
It's the sound of foxes. At least around here.
I've been jet-lagged, and my husband's been away, so I've been going to sleep close to three every morning.
I told you about the family of foxes that live in the seemingly abandoned, empty stand of houses across the street from me, right?
I hadn't seen them the first day after I returned from the States. And I was worried.
I like the foxes. A lot. Even if yes, they can be mangy.
They're little. And red. Cute. They lie in the sun scratching themselves.
And where do you get to live among foxes? Seriously? In a city?
They remind me of my dog of a dozen years back in the States. They're the same color. And shape. Just a bit smaller.
The dog we had to put down before we came.
My beloved Lucy. My best friend.
Named after Lucille Ball, that great American red-head.
Back to the foxes.
Hadn't seen them yet. Really wanted to.
Had noticed a big new demolition sign on the front of the houses, though, which used to be a local lumberyard.
The big, once important lumberyard -- maybe 10 houses all together -- is right on the High Road.
We live around the corner from the High Road now, which just goes on and on for miles through one London neighborhood after another.
Never really ends, this continuous London High Road, as far as I can tell.
Whatever you call it.
I'm worried now they're going to take the whole stand of houses down though. That somebody bought it. They would, wouldn't they? The market's good.
The noise we'll have to endure.
And the foxes. Above all, the foxes.
I was still up, magazines and newspapers strewn around me on the bed, when I heard them. I glanced at the clock radio. 2:30 a.m.
A high-pitched wailing. Followed by some more.
A fox fight. Or something.
I looked out.
Two of them were sitting outside about twenty feet apart on our little private road (we live in a weird little gated community in the middle of everything).
They were staring at each other.
Looking kinda chill, though.
Like Lucy could look, all curled up, but still hyper-alert.
What's going on out there, guys?
My next door neighbor, a retired British gentleman who lives here part-time with his wife, told me the foxes run the place at night.
They run along the high back walls.
In the dead of night.
Or along our private road.
When most people are asleep.
This morning -- okay, afternoon -- a fox sat on the roof of the lumberyard's big old shed (please do not take that glorious old wood shed down), scratching himself, hoping the sun comes out later. Like everyone else in the neighborhood.
Hello there! You're still here.
So good to see you.
Please don't go yet.