When the Fox Called My Dog

Summer before sophomore year, I decided to learn padel because Lucas—the actual fox of our grade, all sly grins and clever eyes—played every Saturday at the rec center. My plan: casually show up with my own racquet, somehow look competent despite never touching the sport in my life, and finally catch his attention between games.

"You're being weird," my best friend Kia said as I dragged her into Scheels to buy equipment.

"I'm being strategic," I corrected, though my voice cracked on the second syllable. Strategy was my middle name now.

The universe, however, had other plans.

Friday evening, practicing my serve in the backyard with Rex—my ninety-pound Lab-Great Pyrenees mix who thought tennis balls were basically his birthright—I managed to slice the ball directly into the tangled mess of cable behind our detached garage. Coaxial, ethernet, decades of mystery wiring that my dad refused to touch because "if it ain't broke, don't fix what you can't explain."

Rex bounded after it, of course, and got hopelessly tangled. I spent twenty minutes freeing him while he whined like I was punishing him instead of saving him from cable prison. By the time we were done, I'd missed the text from Lucas about Saturday's open court session.

I showed up anyway, racquet bag slung over my shoulder like I'd been playing for years. Rex had somehow convinced my mom to let him come—something about "socialization" at the dog park adjacent to the courts—and was currently losing his mind over a squirrel on the other side of the fence.

Then I saw her: an actual fox, sleek red coat glowing amber in the sunset, watching Rex with what looked suspiciously like amusement from the edge of the woods. Rex noticed her too and went absolutely feral—barking, lunging, nearly knocking over a rack of padel racquets in his excitement.

"Your dog is... intense," Lucas said, suddenly beside me with that grin that made my stomach do unnecessary gymnastics.

"He's just enthusiastic," I managed, while simultaneously trying to corral Rex with my leash and remember how legs worked. "Sorry about the cable incident at your house, by the way."

Wait. What?

Lucas's eyebrows shot up. "You heard about that?"

I paused. "Heard about what?"

"My internet's been down since yesterday. Something about a cable getting chewed through?" He laughed, and it was warm and genuine and maybe a little impressed. "Please tell me your dog didn't literally eat my internet."

The fox chattered from the woods, sounding suspiciously like laughter.

"I mean," I said slowly, "Rex does love a good cable."

Lucas's grin widened. "You know what? That's the most metal thing I've heard all week. You want to hit some balls, or should we let your dog finish destroying my connection first?"

I didn't beat Lucas at padel that day. Or the next Saturday. Or the one after that. But every evening, when Rex dragged me to the edge of the woods to bark at his fox frenemy, I caught Lucas watching us with that soft expression people get when they're pretending not to care about something they definitely care about.

Some plans fail so completely they somehow win. The fox—both of them—knew exactly what she was doing.