>Even as I wanted to avoid it biting me, I wanted to feel its teeth. I wanted to be rejected by the wild. [. . .] For the blood it would draw from my hand to be

>Even as I wanted to avoid it biting me, I wanted to feel its teeth. I wanted to be rejected by the wild. [. . .] For the blood it would draw from my hand to be evidence of the permanent barrier of strangeness, of human and animal, the line between fiction and reality, that existed between the two of us. I wanted to know a fox, and at the same time, to know that I could never know him. [. . .] The pain of being bitten and the joy of possibly knowing what it feels like to be bitten by a fox. Not only to see one, but to be marked by one. Uh, yeah... I’m pretty sure the fox took one look at the author and thought, “There’s no way in hell I’d bite that tripping hippie. Yuck.”