My Namesake Upgrade
Our dearly departed cat Snuggles, known as The Dark Lord to her intimates, got an unexpected shoutout in the Hood Avenue group chat recently . “We need Snuggles back,” a neighbor said, to keep the expanding bunny population under control, or something to that effect. Snuggles, all five pounds of her, was a mighty hunter. She earned a place in neighborhood lore when she single-handedly rid a neighboring block of a rat problem. Kitted out in a multi-colored clown collar that alerted birds to her presence, she trotted over every day to pick up a feline happy meal of a baby rat or two, eliciting cheers from grateful residents.
Ironically, after her demise our backyard became a haven to a whole family of bunnies. At first, they scurried quickly away when I appeared. Over time, they became quite comfortable around me, hardly flinching as I passed by. That’s not surprising, really. As Penelope once said, “You’re just not very intimidating, Dad. Sorry.” Perhaps they looked upon me as the caretaker of their motel with an all-you-can-eat buffet. The ample-sized elders had favorite spots that they carefully cultivated, I imagined them saying “ahhhh” as they worked their way into a comfortable position, like someone settling into an easy chair at the end of a long day. Their progeny gorged themselves contentedly on our overgrown lawn while I packed up or unloaded my bike. Luckily for us, the weeds were a particular favorite because they stuck up so high the bunnies could remain fully upright while chomping away. With butterflies and birds swirling around, it reminded me of a scene from Sleeping Beauty, though a movie version with a much older, ordinary-looking male lead. I enjoyed their company and looked forward to them trimming the lawn. And then they were gone, leaving only the bald spots over which the lawn reasserted its authority in short order. Our brief time together seemed like a dream. In the Spring, clues surfaced regarding their fate. [Cue foreboding music] Janet found scat in the flower beds that was too large to have issued from any known creatures with access to our yard. There was grousing in the block group chat about finding bunny body parts everywhere; unlike our tidy Snuggles, who ate all but the tails, whoever this was left quite a trail of carnage behind him. Then, early one morning this handsome fellow glided between the grates of our cast iron fence to join Janet in her morning meditation. Just for a moment, though, as he is a very busy guy.
There was a new sheriff in town. The block was abuzz with fox sightings. Running down the sidewalk, on the front lawns, along the sides of houses. Neighborhood Paparazzi got several shots of him in our backyard. He was probably thinking we need to cut the grass since he had killed our lapine lawn care crew.
Deafening fox alarms added to the drama. A mob of crows began following him everywhere, squawking wildly. (A “murder” is an alternative term for a group of crows. “Mob” is typically used when the crows are after a predator.) Like Snuggles, who was once pinned under a car for 30 minutes by a mob of crows, he had probably made off with a few baby crows who had fallen from the nest during flight training. The human neighbors were having so much fox-related fun with the sightings. Bill sponsored a naming contest, with a prize to whoever came up with the winning names.
The creative juices were flowing, with suggestions including Gargly, Flossy, NIMBY, Marty McFox, Mr. Fantastic, Red Wolf, Slay All Day, Hoodwink, and Marshmallow. My personal favorite was Slay All Day. But then an eleven-year-old girl down the block suggested Jeff. Just Jeff. It rocketed to the top of the pack, followed closely by Marty McFox and Hoodwink. This being Chicago, there were accusations of bribery. All fingers pointed toward me. But my hands were clean. It turns out her inspiration was her class turtle Jeff at school. It doesn’t matter. People tend to forget the real reason for sayings and nicknames. Chicago the Windy City? No, the ninth windiest city. The saying refers to blowhard politicians. Monsters of the Midway – Da Bears? No, that former Big Ten powerhouse, the University of Chicago football team. Hopefully the name will stick and the motivation will be forgotten. For I have to admit it was a huge namesake upgrade for me. After years of hearing news reports about awful people named Jeff (Jeffrey Dahmer, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeff Bezos) it was nice to hear people talking excitedly about Jeff the Fox and, yes, Foxy Jeff. By now the fox alarms have ended. Apparently, all the baby crows have been launched. But Jeff the Fox is still around. Janet and Penelope encountered him in our front yard recently. I am probably the only person on the block who has not seen him in the flesh. It doesn’t matter. I am grateful to Jeff and his eleven-year-old promoter for my “fifteen minutes of fame,” as they say. There are so many great photos of Jeff the Fox. But I wanted to save the best for last, courtesy of our creative neighbor Travis. I hope this is the one that historians use when the full story is told.
Subscribe to Jeffrey’s monthly newsletter
