My public apology to Turble the black fox who has been staking out our yard for most of the Memorial Day weekend...

Turble was a young fox.  On the skinny side with dark black fur and a sweeping silver tip to his tail.  He hoped to grow big and strong like some of the many foxes in the area, but for now, he was just a wisp of darker black in the night.

The coop was on a hill and protected well.  The wind carried the scent of chickens down the dirt road to Turble and he twitched his nose to take it in.  There were easier things to hunt and the chipmunk he had for dinner was still filling his belly, but oh how he could not resist the call of a golden egg.  All foxes knew that raiding a coop could mean certain death, but Turble also knew that for only once in his life, he had to try.

He had been eyeing the coop for days now.  Knew the ins and outs, just how long the dog chains would go, and more importantly just where the loose board was on the fence.  One step, two, three.  Pause.  Wait.  Sidestep, wiggle, and he was through.  Not even a breath.  The chickens would wake at the slightest noise, and Turble felt certain death pressing down on him from all sides.

Then... there it was.  The beautiful silvery-white that shone in the moonlight like love to Turble's heart.  One beautiful egg that had rolled free of the bedding where the largest hen slept.  As big as Turble's whole mouth and impossible to pick up with his sharp teeth.  Finally he tipped his head far enough and managed to lick the egg far into his jaws and pick it up.

A sudden shift from a nearby hen made Turble almost choke on the egg, but it was only adjusting in it's sleep.  He backed slowly out of the coop and out of the fence.  And finally lay the egg carefully on some grass to take a few deep breaths.  He only had a momentary though of eating it now... this prize was too good to waste on a full stomach.  It should be hidden and savored later and Turble knew the perfect place.

There was a yard about half way down the hill where the two-legs had been digging and the dirt was soft.  It would be easy to hide the egg in one of the mounds they had left behind.  Not so easy to get it down there though.  Turble spent much of the night carrying the egg a dozen feet, then needing to set it down to breath.  Each time he picked it up again he cringed at the scrape of teeth on the delicate shell, but it held.

Finally he was there.  A nice soft dirt mound that had not been disturbed in almost a month.  Digging was easy, but getting the egg carefully rolled into the hole and the hole filled so that no one would notice was a much harder task.  The sun was peaking over the horizon by the time the last of the dirt and gravel was smoothed out.

Turble kept a close eye on his prize over the next two days.  The two-legs continued their digging, but further and further away from his hiding spot, so he felt safe in his choice to save it for a hungry night's feast.  They talked to him as he wandered the yard, but he stead-fastly ignored them.  Two-legs never made any sense anyway... here they were digging dozens of holes and never putting any food in them.  Probably better that they didn't though, since the holes were so obvious that someone else would take all their food.  It is a wonder they don't starve.

Tonight, Turble though.  Tonight I feast on the best prize of all.  But when he returned to his hiding spot and started to dig, first his nose, and then his claws told him that something was terribly, horribly wrong.  His egg!  His beautiful moonlight-kissed egg had been smashed to bits by those two-legs and their digging thing!

No feast.  No golden yolk deliciousness.  All that work and risking his life for nothing.  And the worst insult... the two-legs...   didn't... even... eat it!

I am sorry Turble.  I didn't know your egg was there.  I didn't mean to break it.  I don't even like eggs.