Tokalu

My mother hated that sound. The sound of the gun. It excited me. My tongue dangled out of my mouth and my ears perked up more than usual. My sister Winona and I would scramble toward it. If it caught our mother, Imala, by surprise, she scattered to the den. When Winona and I were kits, we weren’t allowed to venture into town near the people, their dogs, and the gun to watch the greyhounds race. Our mother didn’t like the idea of us wandering over there–even as young adult foxes. When we were kits, Winona and I would sometimes sneak out when our mother was hunting. She often caught us on our way home. She’d lecture us, ramble on about how people are nothing but selfish, inconsiderate, evil-hearted monkeys who believe they rule all land, water, and skies. Our father was shot and killed by a fully-clothed man, who most likely shot him for his fur. He succeeded with the help of his hound dog. Winona and I never met him. We were born shortly after that tragedy took place. When we were older and about ready to be on our own, we did what we wanted. I was often out of the den, journeying somewhere. Mom pretended not to worry when I strayed off and told me that she wanted me to go out and do my own thing, but her nervous habits gave her away. When I told her I was leaving the den, she’d pace, her bushy tail would hang stiff. She’d avoid the subject of my father altogether, even though it was the one thing on her mind whenever I or Winona left the den. It was me she worried about the most. Winona never went too far. My mother didn’t want me to be alone. Sometimes she’d ask if I’d met any nice vixens to settle down with. But I doubted any vixen would be able to handle the things I liked to do. If they were all like my mother and my sister, I thought.  Read More