East of the Urals, Vulpes vulpes,
silver fox, is the subject of study.
Our long experiment is not novel,
we simply repeat a Stone Age project
with clipboards and charts.
Since Khrushchev gave the nod, we’ve tamed time.
Daily rounds start at the musky
end of camp. The wildest foxes snarl,
back away, heckled, they snap at my padded
chain-mail jacket. An offered hand a potential weapon,
a threat; fear shrinks their cage.
A bribe of beloved dried reindeer, not taken.
They know we are the tricksters. We scientists
who drive the reaction are its catalyst;
we watch and are watched by vulpine eyes.
Finally, at the other end of camp, metal pens
rattle, the ‘Elites’ jump, bare bellies,
whimper, beg for human contact.
Vixen ɸOX326, with her lush piebald coat,
is my secret favourite: her curled brush wags,
she clambers with a desperate, infantile need for me.
Over time, callipers measured shrinking skulls,
modern assays detected hormonal shifts;
development arrested at puppyhood.
We plan their breeding, each generation
amplifying two views of Homo sapiens:
We are devoted carers. We are apex predators.
Ambivalent foxes, neither aggressive nor friendly,
are released from the study.
Their unnaturally selected pelts are sold for fur.
How to Groom a Fox - Ginny Saunders
