Vix

Vixen came to us half-dead. Tiny thing, no bigger than a kitten, all ribs and wide eyes. Someone found her in a ditch near the bypass, shaking like a leaf. I didn’t think she’d survive the night. But she did. She had fire. Not rage, something steadier. Determined. We don’t usually name the wildlife we rehabilitate, but she was different. She responded to “Vix,” and she’d nuzzle the edge of your hand if she trusted you. Her leg healed, but the damage to her eyesight meant she couldn’t be released. She became a permanent resident, part of our small Irish country sanctuary. She had favourite spots in the enclosure, beneath the hawthorn tree, near the pond. She liked watching the other animals, listening more than moving. She never acted like a pet. She wasn’t tame. But she let me sit near her in the evenings. Sometimes she’d curl her tail round her paws and blink like a queen. Old age caught up with her in spring. She stopped eating. Stopped coming to the fence. I found her in her shelter, tucked into the hay. She wasn’t mine. But I loved her.