I’d been gifted by foxes twice before. At Slide Lake, up in the northwest corner of Wyoming, a small one appeared in my campground as I sat with my morning coffee. He settled on his haunches, and we watched each other for a bit before he sauntered off. Years later, I was taking an early morning walk in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle when a fox came out of the bushes and stopped in the middle of the path ahead. He scratched his ear, gave me a grin, turned and walked leisurely on for a bit before veering again into the brush on the other side of the path.