Down in the darkness, the foxes listened. Above them, the shriek of hydraulic shovels and the grumble of bulldozers. Boggis, Bunce, and Bean—one fat, one short, one lean—had declared war on a hole in the ground.
The children’s eyes grew wide. Mrs. Fox placed a paw on his shoulder. “You’re not just stealing food,” she said softly.
“This way,” he said, veering left. “The smell of chicken.” Fantastic Mr Fox
He turned, grinning. “No, my darling. I’m stealing dinner. And a story. And a little bit of our world back.”
But Mr. Fox smiled. His whiskers twitched. His brush of a tail (or what remained of it after that terrible night) flicked with mischief. Down in the darkness, the foxes listened
“They’ve got machines,” he whispered to his small son, “but we’ve got map.”
Then deeper. “And here— here —the finest blue cheese in the county.” The children’s eyes grew wide
Then right. “Cider. Bean’s own.”
Above, the farmers raged. Below, the feast began. And somewhere in between, a small, clever animal proved that you don’t beat a fox by burying him—you only make him dig more interesting holes.