It had been a good four days since I had seen “our” mangy fox, Freddie, in the flesh, taking the hard-boiled egg I’ve injected with Ivermectin to clear up his disease. Standing a good distance away at dusk, I’ve spotted the robustly healthy other fox, his flame colored coat reflecting the last glints of a late summer evening sun, but alas, no Freddie.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” asked Paul, somewhat baffled at my despondency, “I thought you told me that as he begins to recover he’ll feel stronger and roam further away over his territory to hunt.”

“I know I did,” I sighed, peeling one of the hard-boiled eggs in hopes of seeing the animal later that evening, “But since I haven’t seen him at all, I’m a little worried.”

“Is the food gone in the morning?” Paul asked.

“Yes, but since I’m not seeing Freddie take it, it might be that other big, fat, fox stealing it. Not that the medicine will hurt him, it’ll actually be a good preventative against mange.”

“Well, Ellie Mae,” sighed Paul, losing interest and sitting down to the evening newscast, “there’s only so much you can do.”

“That’s not the attitude that built this country!” I retorted, spurred to action and now flinging open the fridge to find something tastier, something more inviting to a young fox to lure him into the open. “Surely we have something he won’t be able to resist?”

“Only if he’s a vegetarian,” Paul muttered, “only if you can mold a piece of tofu into the shape of a rat.”

Oh, yes, there’s that. We’re not completely vegetarian, by the way, because we eat fish and cheese. Not at the same time, because the thought of a ‘Salmon Melt’ is pretty gross, but I’m addicted to cheese the way people are addicted to chocolate. Except I’m addicted to chocolate, too. And my idea of a palate cleanser is a pint of Guinness. So we’re probably vegetarian less out of health concerns and more because we’re too drunk and stuffed with cheese to want any kind of meat.

“I’ve got it!” I said, taking out an ‘artisan’ (which means you’ve paid too much) loaf of spelt bread and beginning to saw off a crust, “I’ll inject this piece of bread with the meds, then smear a layer of Rosie’s dog food on top and take it over there. He won’t be able to resist!”

Had Paul not been as interested in the next potential leader of the free world, I’m sure he would have turned his eyes away from the screen and given me an enthusiastic thumbs up, but as it was, I took the delicious morsel with me and crept stealthily through the small field, inwardly cursing that I’d been too lazy to put on socks and knowing my ankles were going to be considered an all you-can-eat-buffet to the chiggers, eagerly awaiting on the tips of the damp grasses grazing my bare legs.

There was a last strip of coral cloud to the west, rapidly transitioning to lavender, then grey, as I approached the walnut tree. Feeling somewhat like Boo Radley, tucking away treats for Jem and Scout, I pushed his piece of bread and ‘Newman’s Own Organic Chicken Dinner for Dogs’ into the hollow at the bottom. Rising, I gave a low whistle, as I did every evening, and ran like hell through the grass to beat the chiggers, climbed over the fence and waited. And watched.

Glad to have my phone to pass the time, I perused social media and scratching my left ankle as the first telltale red bumps appeared, I noted on my Facebook page that it was exactly a year ago that I had been called back to Los Angeles to film the sequel to ‘Coach.’

Doesn’t life take you on a crazy journey if you’re willing and also crazy? A year ago I was walking onto our soundstage at Universal Studios and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Blake Shelton, who was working right next door, on ‘The Voice,’ and someone was asking me if I’d rather have a cappuccino or mineral water. Now I was leaning against the top board of the fence, scratching at chigger bites and waiting for a mangy fox to appear.

He did.

And somehow, that was so much more exciting.