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As I watched from the hillock above, a dog Fox sniffed the curly locks protruding from Johnny's bobble-hat and cocked its leg against the vast padded bulk of his sleeping bag. By the time the moisture had reached its target the Fox was out of sight.
Cunning creatures Foxes. No human, no matter how sly, could have got away unnoticed. In the early morning peace I speculated what possible motive the Fox had for doing such a filthy thing? Was the Fox simply marking his territory, or was Johnny unlucky? Frankly, just to leave a scent, the amount released did seem a trifle excessive. I reckoned the Fox probably pissed on Johnny for his own amusement.
Until this morning, when I witnessed the Fox empty its bladder over Johnny as he camped with Dad, I was a bit of an agnostic as far as blood sports were concerned. The childhood memory of toffee-nosed Basil Brush, with his ingenious catch phrase "Bum Bum", infuriated kids intensely who, if they had had any conception of Foxhunting, would have willingly volunteered the ginger bastard.
As Johnny roused himself and aimlessly patted the quite extensive dark mark on his sleeping bag he raised his head and looked hopefully at his Dad for assistance. I quickly jolted myself back into action, but before I had time to re-adjust the immense pupa was flat on its back. It appeared that, after failing to attract his father's attention to the piss patch, Johnny had lost interest and gone back to sleep.
Johnny was now deeply unconscious and didn't wake until his Dad flicked his son's ear lobe, shouting. ‘WAKE UP YOU MAD FUCKER.’ Johnny didn't know where he was for a moment, but eventually grinned inanely at his dad, proceeded to roll up his bag into a tube before pointing to his groin indicating that he wanted to pass water...