Invasion Solution? ...A Beautiful Wall

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The call came in just after nine in the morning. Jim took it and passed it on to me. Some rabid foxes were terrorizing a homeowner in Rosedale.

“Rosedale, eh? Rich neighbourhood—must be on the ravine.”

Jim grunted and took a swig of his coffee. “It’s old money up there—The guy who phoned in is a writer—Paul Horvath, I think he said.”

“Paul Horvath? That guy’s up for a Pulitzer.”

“Yeah, what’s he write?”

“Plays—he’s a playwright—he’s got one on Broadway right now.”

Jim twirled his finger in the air. Anything artsy to Jim was just la-di-da, so I didn’t even bother.

“So, are you gonna go out there and rescue this poor bugger?”

I was already gathering my stuff. “Yeah—with luck, I’ll be back just past noon.”

“Pick up a pizza on your way in.”

I nodded and headed out to the van.

The mention of Paul Horvath stirred some old fires in me that I figured I stomped out years ago.

In college, I had hopes of being a writer, but then I met Erika and next thing I know, we’re living in a cramped walk-up with a baby on the way.

My vision faded faster than the fabric on our cheap couch and now, ten years into my exterminator career, such aspirations were just the stuff of dreams.

When I pulled up to the address, I whistled softly. It was an old Victorian manse set back from the road and accessed by a red crushed stone drive. It was magnificent and intimidating.

I drove up the drive and parked in a small, tree-shaded area in back where the commercial vehicle would be less noticeable. A guy like Paul Horvath wouldn’t want the neighbours thinking he had roaches or anything like that.

I rang the doorbell—it was the old-fashioned kind that you turn manually. It made a discrete, grinding noise and before long, an older woman in a dark dress answered. I could tell she was his maid or housekeeper and she wouldn’t win points for cheerfulness either. She ushered me into a huge family room where a man was standing with his back to me peering out the window.

I coughed softly. “Mr. Horvath?”

An older, European-looking man turned around to face me. I could tell from the lines on his face that his expression was set in a permanent scowl.

“Jeff Finley, from Metro Exterminators,” I offered.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of who you are.”

He was dressed about fifty years behind the times. He was actually wearing a smoking jacket—I think I saw a picture of Hugh Hefner once, posing in one of those—It must have been from the fifties.

“Can you rid me of these pests?”

“Foxes usually don’t pose a threat to humans. What makes you think they’re rabid?”

He sighed. “I don’t know they are. I saw one this morning while I was sitting here having my coffee. I just want them gone.”

I seized up the situation pretty quickly then. He saw one fox and had no idea if it were rabid or not. I glanced around the room—no evidence of pets—probably didn’t like animals period.

“Will you take care of this matter?”

“Yes. I’ll need access to your yard. I assume it backs onto the ravine.”

“It does.”

“Nice. You must see a lot of wildlife here.”

He sneered distastefully. “That would be an understatement.”

“I’ll just go and get my equipment.”

“Fine, fine,” he wafted his hand in dismissal. “When you’re finished, give Greta the bill. I must get back to work.”

I didn’t like the man. I made up my mind that whatever he wrote, I wasn’t buying.

The yard was beautifully landscaped and sloped to a ravine that was breath taking. I’d kill to live there. I doubt that he even took tea on his patio.

I walked to the edge of the cultivated lawn and peered down the embankment. There were masses of tangled weeds and tree branches. There was also a collapsed wire fence. I carefully climbed over and slid down a gravel rainwater run-off until I was about thirty feet down. Sure enough there was the den about halfway up, dug into the hillside.

I scaled the slope until I was about ten or twelve feet below—then, I saw her—a vixen, with about four or five kits frolicking around her. They were like any puppy, rolling and pouncing and wrestling in the sun. This is what he wanted destroyed.

I felt hatred rise in that instant. This petty bourgeois, this bitter man, hated the very wildlife that surrounded him and gave his home its charm. My mind was made up. I wouldn’t harm the foxes.

I climbed back up the hill and went to my van. In minutes I was back with a hammer and pliers repairing the fence. I sweated for about half an hour in the warm shadows until I had closed the breech. The foxes would no longer have access to the yard and the man would once again be safe from the wilderness beyond his door.

I paused to wipe the sweat from my eyes. It was quiet on the hillside. The canopy of leaves met over my head like a green cathedral. I liked it here.

I saw along the crest of the hill the woods had been scarred by clearing it for people’s yards. I looked to the opposite side of the ravine and saw the same devastation.

Paul Horvath was right. This was a crisis.

I looked around me with disgust at the extent of the defoliation.

It was a definite infestation. An invasion. A penetration of the human swarm.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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