I had a great plan this summer to spend less time cutting acres of grass and more time on my deck sipping Flying Dog Brewery’s Dead Rise summer ale flavored with Old Bay seasoning.
Then I was thwarted. By a little fox.
Like a lot of folks who move out of big cities to mini farms, I didn’t have a clue what I was getting into. When we bought our land and built a house 20 years ago, all I saw was 6 acres of rolling hills of grass. One of the neighbors even cut and round-baled it.
When we moved in, I got one of those cheap Home Depot John Deere riding mowers to cut around the house and hired a guy to cut the field.
But he retired after a year, and I had to take over. We bought a midsize Kubota tractor with a 5-foot-wide belly mower to take care of the lawn and field. It took over 4 hours to do the job and another 2 hours to push-mow and weed whack around the house.
That got old fast, so I bought a speedy Exmark zero-turn mower, like the ones you see on golf courses and used by road crews. That cut mowing time nearly in half.
All was good until last year’s constant rain — so far, a repeat this spring — that had me cutting twice a week, killing any free time.
My solution: I let two acres on the far side of the property just grow, let myself forget about cutting it.
All spring it grew and grew. I cut the rest of the field and was on my deck with my can of Flying Dog in less than 3 hours. Mission accomplished.
Then it all went to hell.
First, our three dogs got curious about what was in the field and spent hours looking for mice and other critters to chase, as well as getting covered in ticks that like to jump from tall grass onto anything that walks by.
Then came the young fox who also saw the field as prime hunting grounds.
At first, my wife Michele and I didn’t think much of it, having had foxes, skunks, deer, rabbits, and even horses coming through the yard over the years. But this fox seemed a bit too at home in the tall grass.
At a distance, foxes are cute. But they can also carry rabies and mange. Our dogs got mange from a fox years ago, so I wanted this one gone.
Initially, I yelled at it off the deck, and the fox skipped off. When that no longer worked, I fired off a bottle rocket, and he ran for his life.
Then last week, as I mowed, the fox popped his head above the uncut field grass. This time he didn’t run. I got within 15 yards, and he just looked at me, unafraid. Not good.
I did a quick internet search for the local rules on shooting foxes and determined it was legal. My wife wasn’t happy with my plan, but I got my .22 Remington Nylon 66 rifle and returned to the Exmark and headed out to the field, a “Green Acres” vigilante.
Of course, the fox was gone. But I kept the rifle for the rest of the cutting job. I’m sure my neighbors thought I was the crazy one.
For the next few days, the fox came back, though my wife convinced me to keep the gun in the safe. Now it took two or three or more bottle rockets to scare him off.
My summer of laziness outfoxed, the only solution was to cut the grass. I started up the antique 1950 Farmall Cub, lowered the sickle arm and hit the field.
Gone went the ticks. Gone went the fox. The beer is still on ice.
Paul Bedard is a senior columnist and author of Washington Secrets.
