Wide eyed Willy with whiskers gone pale

Stands taught, tight and tame as a muskrat’s tail

Once snipped and stitched with a nimble hand

Willy takes his place before hearth rug and fan  

Barren brains aren’t bothered by woes of the field

By wet winter wanderings and the spoils they yield

Not by heat, hunger or hindsight of what is or what was

Just by shadows that dance as the coals’ glow is lost

His friends stand tall on shelves high and low

They stand there for hours as the stories go

Just he sits down on hearth covered floor

Moved by the mistress, that wished it were so

“His tint has gone shabby, he’s missing an eye!”

 “He’ll be less noticed there by the fireside”

So down he was set, at the mistress’ bequest

His once grand seat made all the more less

Now dust coats his fur that once shown like rubies

And once on his paw the house cat did, yes, pee

Poor Willy still stands and does so silently

For Willy is glad that he just gets to be

His dead eye and twisted grin

Might make most men’s mind turn sick within

But heartily treasured, blanched pupil or not

Is the dust fed body of the wily Willy Fox.

(I originally wrote this as a tiny story which consisted of just the last stanza, but then a story emerged of how the fox, after years of wear and tear, transitions from top shelf to floor and what it means to be inanimate.  This could probably use a re-write and I wouldn't mind hearing a voiceover, pretty please)