Something about sitting still while a wild creature decides you are safe – about aligning nervous systems without words – has been quietly transformative. I’ve been sharing my wildlife garden with a fox… This dog fox is confident, playful, unmistakably himself. He has helped me return to myself.
There’s something regulating about being chosen, even temporarily, by something wild.
It reminds you that you are part of the landscape, not separate from it.
And, that safety, like wildlife, cannot be forced – only invited.
When a Fox Appears in Your Wildlife Garden
When we first shared the garden – as far as I know, the very first time – it felt extraordinary. We’d startled each other a little earlier that day, then this happened; completely unexpectedly…
He appeared without ceremony and walked straight towards me. Then he paused and lifted his head just enough to peer over the arm of my chair, as though assessing my character. For a moment I could only see the elegant line of his snout and the tips of his ears as he tested the air.
I stayed completely still. Partly not to spook him. Partly because it felt like a privilege to be admitted into his world, even briefly.
After a while, he moved around the chair and stood a few feet away. Close enough to look directly into my eyes. We simply existed there together. I didn’t think about how I felt – scared, excited, wary – I was in awe and only thought about whether our nervous systems could settle into something compatible. Whether he could feel that I meant no harm.
Apparently, he could.
Eventually he wandered off, entirely unhurried, as though this sort of thing happened every day. It felt like trust. Or at least the beginning of it. Shared entirely on his terms.
Sharing Space with Wildlife — On Their Terms
Since then, Jase has been galloping around the garden with rangy confidence – very much a dog fox. Leg cocked to scent-mark. Daytime patrols. That loose, athletic movement that says, I belong here. He nibbles and scratches himself with his teeth, sniffs the ground, rubs his head into the grass, then occasionally looks up at me with his tongue slightly out, as if mid-thought.
He checks my wildlife gardening with what I can only interpret as approval. I cut some of the ferns back but left plenty for shelter – emergent croziers still protected from frost, ladybirds tucked safely away, spring bulbs beginning to bloom underneath. I like to think he’s noticed.
He once sat with his back to me, had a good scratch, then suddenly seemed to remember that humans are not always kind. He sprang sideways – then the other way – tail high, almost a play bow, and galloped off as if to say, Don’t get ideas.
And I won’t.
I don’t want to tame him. I don’t want him dependent. I feel incredibly privileged simply to hold space with him while he passes through. That’s part of what wildlife gardening really is, I think… not creating control, but creating welcome.
He will never know how much joy he’s brought me.
A Nervous System Reset in the Garden
Since the third week in January, I’ve felt like I’ve been living on the ceiling – wired, hypervigilant, unable to fully settle. Nothing quite reached the final layer of that anxiety. Until now.
Something about sitting still while a wild creature decides you are safe – about aligning nervous systems without words – has been quietly transformative. He is confident, playful, unmistakably himself. A country fox, which somehow makes it even more special. I’m incredibly grateful for his presence.
There’s something regulating about being chosen, even temporarily, by something wild. There’s something regulating about being chosen, even temporarily, by something wild.
It reminds you that you are part of the landscape, not separate from it.
If you’ve read my reflections on winter wildlife gardening, you’ll know I often talk about doing less and allowing nature space. This felt like the embodied version of that philosophy.
Less intervention.
More presence.
The Joy (and Reality) of a Country Fox
My mum is still slightly wary, although she’s conceded he seems friendly.
I did briefly think he might steal the washing. He inspected it thoughtfully… and bounced off. He visits regularly now.
Stealthy. Adaptable. Intelligent. Utterly charming.
Of course, sharing your garden with a fox isn’t all poetic eye contact and existential grounding. There are dug patches. The unmistakeable calling cards on the grass. The occasional suspicion that he’s reorganised something overnight.
But this is what happens when you cultivate a wildlife garden rather than a showroom lawn. You invite life in. Sometimes that life has a tail.
What a Fox in a Wildlife Garden Teaches You
This encounter has reminded me of something important.
Wildlife gardening isn’t just about planting for pollinators or leaving seedheads for birds. It’s about coexistence.
It’s about accepting that once you create habitat, creatures will use it in ways you didn’t choreograph. It’s about resisting the urge to dominate and about letting wildlife remain wild. And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, it’s about being still enough to be seen.
If this reflection resonated, you might also enjoy:
- My thoughts on Nest Boxes
- Or the recent post on ‘Beeing’ Friendly to Pollinators
Wishing you warmth, wonder, and a garden alive with unexpected visitors,
Clare 🌿
