254
THE ESSEX NATURALIST
Trixie
By H. McSweeney
AT the casual mention of cubs by the local poacher I was
immediately alerted; I have for the last few years been
endeavouring to obtain a badger cub to rear, but have always
been beaten by a short head. Endless trails have always ended
with such phrases as, "If you were only here yesterday", or "I
gave them away to so and so who destroyed them". This also
turned out to be a false scent; fox scent, in fact, not Badger.
The poacher had dug out a litter of seven fox cubs, made a
quick pound by selling one in the local and had kept one himself.
The five remaining cubs were taken away by the land owner with
the intention of destroying them, but the land owner's young
daughters fell in love with them and stayed the execution until
they returned to school. Feeling in a compromising mood, I was
ready to settle for a Fox in lieu of a Badger cub.
A five bob tip and the poacher was in my car piloting me down
narrow lanes to the land owner's farm.
Our reception was very mixed to say the least, the doubtful
character I was in company with didn't do much to allay the
suspicion in the farmer's mind. He was clearly trying to place
me as a hunt member, the R.S.P.C.A., or just an enquiring busy-
body. However, after a few words of praise for his dog, a
magnificent retriever, and the reassurance that I was a naturalist
in need of a good pedigree fox cub, I was immediately given
permission to have the pick of the litter.
I was escorted by the poacher, who seemed to know his way
round the farm very well, to a loose-box and, on entering, was
faced with the most defiant of the litter spitting and snarling his
fury and fear from the top of an eight-foot door post where he
had scrambled as we entered. They were fully weaned and had
clearly learned to hate and fear all mankind in general. The
vixen cub was soon found, all the rest of the litter being males.
Tucking her inside my pullover, I was soon speeding down the
lanes for home, with a sinking feeling that I had bitten off more
than I could chew. My wife, through conditioned to years of
strange creatures being thrust upon her, took to the orphan and
named her Trixie. Trixie was extremely timid, refusing all food
touched by human hand, so I resorted to lowering rats and mice
on the end of a piece of string into her box and then she would
only eat them during hours of darkness. She was accommodated
in an open topped box in the kitchen and after a few weeks of
careful handling would feed from one's hand and watch our
movements with interest.
Eventually she decided that she liked us and would be
tempted out to play with a ball or plague the life out of the