The Rabid Fox

The Rabid Fox

(In Loving Memory of my Uncle Gordon and Aunt Nomal Jo Goetz)

When I received word that my Uncle Gordon Goetz had passed, I remembered how he saved my life in the fall of 1958.  That fall, my brother Steve started first grade leaving me and my cousin Stanley behind.  We spent the warm fall days riding Steve’s pedal-driven tractor and my tricycle on the path worn between my house and the Rock House where Uncle Gordon and Aunt Jo were staying.  We would ride back and forth all day, but always ended up at Stanley’s house.  Then, we would go inside for supper where I was such a regular guest that my Aunt Jo always set a place for me.  Uncle Gordon sat at the head of the table, Stanley to his left, then me, then Aunt Jo at the other end of the table, then Stanley’s sister Leslie, leaving an open spot between her and Uncle Gordon.  Aunt Jo was a wonderful cook and you could depend upon a delicious meal of fried pork (generally thin-sliced hog jowl or similar cuts), pinto beans, pan-fried potatoes, home-made biscuits with butter that she churned in a Mason jar, and fresh milk from their cow.  (At the beach in Alabama, I often order hog jowl off the menu at Lambert’s. Pam says I do it for attention, but she doesn’t realize the fond memories it brings of those evenings eating at Aunt Jo’s.)  After the supper dishes were done, I would say goodnight, walk from the front door of their house to the gravel road, then walk toward our house.  I have always been afraid of the dark, so I would walk as long as I could, then I would break into a run to get to our house as fast as possible.  Mom must have known I was afraid because she would turn on the porch light at dark and leave it on until I came home.

One evening before I left to go home, Uncle Gordon’s black and tan coonhounds began to raise an awful ruckus in the backyard where they were chained to an upside down boat that served as their dog house.  Aunt Jo had just finished the dishes and heard the dogs as she tossed the dishwater out the back door.  (The Rock House didn’t have running water, so Aunt Jo carried two enamel buckets of water from our well-house each day.  She washed and rinsed the supper dishes in two large dishpans on the counter, then tossed the water out the back door of the kitchen.)  Aunt Jo asked Uncle Gordon to check and see what was bothering the dogs.  He looked out the back door with his long silver flashlight.  Not seeing anything in the backyard, he went to the living room and cracked the front door.  As he shined the light into the dark, I squeezed between him and the cracked door and looked out into the night.  My eyes were almost adjusted to the dark when Uncle Gordon shoved me back into the living room and slammed the door.  He was noticeably shaken as he told Aunt Jo to gather the kids together and keep them inside.  “There is a rabid fox in the yard; I don’t know how it missed biting Brad.  It snapped just inches from his face as it ran across the front porch.”

Aunt Jo gathered Leslie, Stanley, and me onto the couch and wrapped her arms tightly around us.  Uncle Gordon went into the back bedroom and returned with his shotgun and several shells.  He told Aunt Jo to not open the door . . . no matter what.  With that, he went out the door into the night with his gun and flashlight.  Aunt Jo locked the door behind him.  Shortly thereafter, we heard the door slam on his 1956 Chevy BelAir.  (All I can remember about his car was the gas cap being located behind the rear taillight.  It’s funny how some things stick in our minds.)  We heard the engine roar and the headlights began sweeping across the windows of the house.  Soon, the headlights stopped moving and we heard a shotgun blast, muffled voices, then a knock at the door.  Still trembling, we stayed on the couch.  Finally, Uncle Gordon called out, “Aren’t you going to let me in?”  Aunt Jo jumped up and opened the door.  “The fox is dead. Keep the kids inside the house” was all Uncle Gordon said.  We stood at the edge of the open door and watched as Uncle Gordon and my Dad carried the ragged carcass of the fox between two sticks and tossed it on a brush pile in the front yard.  Dad poured gasoline on the brush pile and lit it on fire.  When the fire died down a bit, Dad carried me to our house and then went back to help Uncle Gordon.  Mom said it was past bedtime, but I was so scared that I insisted on sleeping in her bed.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of Mom and Aunt Jo washing the front porch with bleach and hot soapy water.  Dad and Uncle Gordon were catching our dogs and giving each of them shots with a hypodermic needle.  Mom said it was to keep them from catching the rabies.  Based on how the dogs yelped when given a shot, I was very glad that Uncle Gordon kept the fox from biting me.  Stanley and I rode the tractor and tricycle to the brush pile, but nothing remained except a few smoldering embers and no sign of the fox.  That evening, Mom told me to wait at Aunt Jo’s after I ate supper.  She needed to come check on something and wanted me to walk back to the house with her so she wouldn’t be afraid.  For many nights afterward, she would come to Aunt Jo’s each evening, talk briefly, and then ask me to walk her back to our house.  I didn’t know if she was really afraid, but this four-year old boy was very happy to have his mother holding his hand as we walked toward light on our front porch.