Last sunday I noted that despite the huge number of foxes that now live in London, I had never seen a dead one on the streets of the city. This anomaly was corrected at 1:30 am today. A handsome dog fox had clearly just lost an argument with a car and was lying in the middle of the road.
There was something oddly jarring about the sight. I suppose one has become used to seeing them alive. And they remain so incongruous (creatures so fundamentally rural living in so urban a setting) that there is something slightly magical about seeing them, even now.
So to see them killed is to see a spell broken.
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