THE SUN is barely up. Yet here they are, already basking in its light while adorned with synthetics, sly and sleek.
I thought my red ribbon was decent enough, but the soles of their paws still blinded me. Their gaudy garments hurt my pockets more than my eyes.
I barely had any fish that one day, so I took the risk I should not have made.
They were foxes who loved running their mouths while hoarding the fishes, berries, even the mice. Even the stockpiles were not spared, as if the dwindling amount of life was not enough misery.
They mauled and branded our paws and claimed ownership for the fish.
Indeed, no fish was spared.
Hundreds appealed, and among them were my peers. In the end, we were only met with insolence as a response.
Unfortunately for us, not everything neoteric in nature can bring good change.
Perhaps, their coats have more value than our fur. Or maybe, the silver fox simply forgot everything despite representing her own kind.
Time sure clouds one’s memories. Stripped of any light, we can only yowl as we leave our fragile, docile abode.
The foxes garnished themselves so much that even the lifeless figurines at my back might spit out of spite.
Now, look through my eyes and learn how our drought sustains the foxes’ abundance. They never rummaged for their own but still had the nerve to ransack the old.
Because the city foxes adore their lavish lives so much, they choose to leave the order of natural extraction splintered. F – Trixcy Anne Loseriaga
