Hmmm, foxy

I have a hate-hate-love-hate relationship with the local foxes. They are a noisy menace: stealing my shoes; stealing my gloves, leaving them in Richard's garden; "doing it" at 3am; leaving me pungent, disease-ridden "presents" and so on. Every so often, however, I feel they look me in the eyes and remind me that it is not their fault. Not their fault that they have mange. Not their fault that they need to poo. Not their fault that discarded KFC is their most convenient food source.


OK, he may be a mangy little flea bag and the middle photo may be terribly blurry, but tell me this guy isn't in some way adorable...