HAPPY RED FOX

If someone told you that a fox would be hired to guard the henhouse eggs, you’d call it a lie. Yet that’s exactly what happened. Somewhere in America, a happy red fox was born. My entire childhood was spent just a few meters from a beautiful, sprawling henhouse. Like all foxes, I loved eggs, and as I grew, I tried every trick to steal from the coop. The hens didn’t matter. I wanted eggs. In my adolescence, I learned from my father—who learned from his father—that mastering the hens’ dwelling was the sole purpose of a fox’s life. It was the meaning of a happy fox. My father’s old fox mentor always said, “The hens are weak, and the roosters are too vain and cowardly to lead themselves.” He also said, “The hens don’t know it yet, but they need to be dominated—for their own good.”

When I reached adulthood, I began to understand the workings of the birds’ abode. The roosters strutted pompously, chests puffed out, stacking gallantries and copulations. They cared nothing for resources or security. A rooster’s only concern in that henhouse was the next young hen he’d mount. Among the few tasks they deigned to perform, they had to crow every morning, keep their feathers glossy and radiant, and ensure the cleanliness of their singing perch—their rooster stage—so it could stand imposing and magnificent to announce the sun’s arrival before dawn. Their real, sole preoccupation was enchanting and attracting new young hens.

The hens, whom my father thought weak, were in fact overburdened. They had many worries, for they handled every task in the henhouse. By day’s end, they had no time to tend to their own appearance. They protected and fed the chicks, cleaned the coop, fetched water from the river, hauled sawdust, harvested corn, and still had to fend off the foxes circling the henhouse to steal their eggs.

But my father was more ambitious than other foxes. Most foxes only wanted to eat eggs daily, but my father’s old mentor said that if we could dominate the hens’ dwelling, we’d dominate both hens and foxes, and soon enslave both—for their own good, of course. Convinced of the mission, he tried countless times throughout his life, but sadly, the old fox was devoured by piranhas and never achieved his greatest goal: dominating the hens’ enclosure. Thus, a generational legacy and years of planning fell to me. I was to continue the family project—for everyone’s good, obviously, but especially the hens’, who didn’t yet know they were unfit to make their own decisions.

At first, it seemed impossible. Life in the henhouse was too free, though somewhat chaotic. Even overburdened, the hens never neglected security. Until the day I spotted the gap under the fence: the hens were overburdened. That would be my entry to gain the hens’ trust. One morning, I had another fox attempt to grab eggs in broad daylight and stopped him in front of the entire henhouse. A fox would never attack in daylight, but the hens were so exhausted they believed what they wanted to believe. That day, I became a hero.

“Not all foxes are the same, and not all are bad,” the rumor spread about me in hen territory. The roosters found the idea of a “good” fox strange, but roosters had no morals, and their opinions meant nothing to the hens. Soon, I offered to fetch river water for them. They were delighted—no one helped them, no one cared. Only the nice fox: me. It wasn’t long before I had free access to the henhouse, and by then, most foxes were euphoric and under my command. During this period, there were daily scuffles among the foxes, for I ordered a halt to egg theft for a while. Some didn’t believe in me, but most saw that what I offered was worth the wait. Soon, I’d have total control of the henhouse, and they’d have what they’d always dreamed of: eggs every day.

One day, a bear attacked the henhouse—likely starved for days or injured. Bears didn’t attack like that. This was the opportunity I needed. That day, I thought my father, from heaven, was helping me. Under my command, all the foxes attacked together and drove the bear off. There was a raucous celebration, and the hens were deeply grateful. Later, at a general meeting in the henhouse, I convinced them that only foxes could protect it. The roosters were useless, and the hens had too many tasks and worries—they were overburdened. But to protect the henhouse, the foxes wanted just one thing: to eat eggs daily. A heated debate erupted in the hens’ dwelling. The roosters opposed fiercely. Was an egg already a chick? If so, the foxes would eat chickens to protect chickens, they shouted. The foxes countered that an egg wasn’t food—it was nourishment, and thus entirely different.

In the end, once again, the hens believed what they wanted to believe. The roosters feared for the henhouse’s future but had no moral authority and were outvoted. After hours of intense debate, they agreed to draw lots in a process an older hen called “democratic.” The rules were simple: if the shorter stick was drawn, the foxes were hired. Obviously, I’d fought too hard to leave it to chance. I made my own luck.

Unseen, I broke the sticks—all were short now. The euphoric, overburdened hens cheered when the shorter stick was drawn. They cried, “Finally, someone will help us! Finally, someone to defend us!” The roosters bowed their heads and withdrew in silence, knowing they bore some blame. The foxes, no less euphoric at the prospect of daily eggs, swore loyalty to me. That day, I climbed the tallest tree I could find, where no one could see, and wept copiously for hours. My father wasn’t there to witness it, but I had succeeded. “Dad, I did it. I enslaved the hens and the foxes—you were right. You were always right. Now both do whatever I want.” What a glorious night that was.

From that day, everything ran perfectly in the henhouse—at least for the foxes. Some time later, I heard of a Swallow who bought goods to resell. Dominating the henhouse, the foxes, and eating eggs daily was nice, but now I wanted more. Now I wanted gold. I arranged a meeting with Mr. Swallow, who was deeply impressed by my achievement. He promised gold if I delivered 88 dozen eggs weekly for resale. Buyers were plentiful, he exclaimed excitedly. Power and control were nice, but they weren’t gold. My father never dreamed of gold.

The foxes disliked the idea—fewer eggs for them. But they ate from my paw. I sustained them. They could leave anytime, but where else would they eat eggs daily? Besides, word spread, and many foxes wanted to work for me. To the hens, I said the foxes were exhausted from patrolling the henhouse all night and, for their excellent work, deserved more eggs. Hens were easy to deceive—just appeal to their sentimentality. Plus, they were now even more overburdened, but still believed what they wanted. Laying more eggs was better than fetching river water or securing the henhouse alone. This time, the roosters said nothing. I reminded them of the many hens lost fetching water over the years—now it didn’t happen because foxes protected them. Of course, they didn’t know it was the foxes attacking and killing hens at the river. But I made clear the decision was theirs—if they disagreed, foxes would stop night patrols, leaving the henhouse unprotected. The hens needed to feel in control, free, and that everything was “democratic,” as they loved to say. In the end, they drew lots again. As a lucky fox who makes her own luck, the shorter stick came from my paw once more, and production was increased. Well. Mr. Swallow was an excellent salesman and soon demanded more eggs, bringing more gold. By then, I dominated everything, with fear on my side—plus the hens’ sentimentality and the roosters’ omission and lack of morals. But I always got what I wanted, with much luck and “democratically,” as the hens said. Over time, my skill at pulling strings grew, and my ideas materialized like magic.

Years later, the hens did nothing but lay eggs all day. The roosters had taken all the henhouse tasks. Their feathers were no longer glossy, and their perch was always dirty. Though tired and weak, they crowed each morning. But with the little time left, they no longer copulated as before. Copulations were scheduled and served only for procreation and egg production—for the good of the entire henhouse, obviously. Every member had to do their part to maintain security and stability in the abode of birds—and now foxes too.

The work and money were everyone’s, but I controlled and spent it, and I always needed more gold. But that wasn’t their problem—slaves don’t understand business. They had shelter, food, health, and security thanks to me and should be grateful. I brought order to that henhouse, and the gold was fair payment for my immense efforts. Now I’m considering expansion. Mr. Swallow told me of several henhouses a few kilometers away. All I need is luck and a bit of democracy. No problem—I’ve always been a very lucky red fox. I always make my own luck.

Plus, many bears and foxes want to work for me. Some want eggs, others gold, but everyone wants something. Now I sit at the big table and always learn new ideas from them to control the masses. When hens are too stressed, I give them a rest day. I create a new feather-shine contest, a parade of young hens to entertain the roosters, or raffle a silver coin among coop members. Chicks must attend the nursery daily, learning early how the henhouse works—how foxes are vital for order and how they must behave to avoid expulsion from their “former” land. If any member dares not send their chick, they face severe repression. A few times, they tried to rebel, but I invented an epidemic, made chicks and roosters vanish at night, and planted bear tracks around the henhouse. Their fear is my best friend. Their worry for their young is their weakness. Terrified, the hens sign any contract without reading or questioning.

Recently, Mr. Swallow offered a remedy that keeps the henhouse happy and makes hens work better, he says. I’m considering using it only on roosters—I don’t want to risk the business. The idea of them smiling for no reason is good, but I need assurance that it won’t affect egg production. Roosters don’t matter—the messier the hens’ enclosure, the better for me, as long as it doesn’t hurt business. There are a few rules among foxes, but they must be obeyed or punishment is death or banishment. The greatest and most important: the hens must never know the truth, or production suffers. If they became unhappy, it would harm business. Besides, deep down, they don’t want the truth—they couldn’t bear it. Deceived, they’re happier hens, and I remain a very happy—and very rich—red fox. Ah, my father would be proud if that old fox’s opinion still matters.