The vixen wandered down the hill, creeping silently through the tall grass. She could’ve sworn she smelled a small mouse around here, but she was aging. Her once smooth fur was now becoming rough. She was still the most beautiful shade of red the other foxes had seen in a while, but her muzzle was turning gray.
She edged on down the hill, and the grass came to an end. It was an old path; one traveled by a great number of humans that increased every year.
She sniffed the air, then sniffed the dirt, wondering what it is she had really smelled. She followed the faint scent down the trail, small pebbles and twigs crunching softly beneath her tiny paws. It smelled like french fries that a human had idiotically dropped along the path one time, no wait, it WAS mouse!
As she advanced slowly down the path, the smell intensified. Before she knew it, something sharp pierced her shoulder, right below the neck. She fell, whimpering, to the unforgiving ground, thinking, “When will those humans leave well enough alone?”