Makejo, a full-grown red fox, was born on the marshy shores of James
Bay. Originally, he belonged to a litter of six pups which a Cree Indian
had dug up in the spring and given to our trader at Moose Factory. The
pups were still blind and helpless when they reached human hands. They
took kindly to the bottle, but the mixture of condensed milk and plain
water on which our man tried to raise them proved a failure. One little
fox alone survived the ordeal. That was Makejo.
Although undersized and weak at first, he grew amazingly fast soon after
he was weaned. When I saw him two years later he was larger and heavier
than any fox of that region. Blood red, with a mask fringed with black
and a large white tip at the end of his brush, he was as tame as a dog
and as mischevious as a monkey.
He lived in the trader’s house, slept in a box, and came instantly at
the call of his name. He was a great mouser. Now and again the trader
would lock him up in the storeroom at night where he would kill dozens
of mice, which he would invariably eat—barring the tails.
[Illustration: Makejo, the red fox]
He would play with the children by the hour and had taught himself any
amount of tricks while running madly up and down the house. His chief
stunt was a back somersault. He had started doing it while leaping
against the wall of the room but ended by doing it at any moment, even
from a standing position.
In summer, he was allowed to use a hole cut out for him on one of the
windows on the ground floor. He would get out through this to a small
ledge, four feet above the ground, where he would pass hours sunning
himself and keeping an eye on everything that was going on.
His chief delight was to torment the twenty-odd Post dogs which were
always loafing in the neighborhood. They all belonged to the Malamute
breed and would have killed him instantly had they been able to catch
him. But they never did.
Makejo, from his ledge, would watch the dogs until they were asleep.
Then, jumping down like a streak of lightning, he would flash through
the pack yelping. In a second every Husky was after him. His speed was
so marvelous, his eye so quick and his judgment of distance so uncanny,
that he would remain several minutes tearing in and out of the dogs with
perfect impunity until, with one leap, he would jump on his ledge again
and disappear in the house through his little hole.
For all I know, Makejo may still be living happily where I saw him last.