I am a creature of habit, and because of that, my creature, Winnie Lew, is also a creature of habit. My mornings usually feature the same routine. After rising, I make my bed and begin my morning workout.

I conclude my workout with a brisk one-mile walk. I am fortunate to live in a wonderful little cottage on the grounds of a much larger estate. A walk down the drive and back is about a third of a mile, so three laps and I have finished my workout. Almost. It is then that I take Winnie Lew, who has patiently waited for me on the screened-in porch, for her morning constitutional and lap.

Of the many words that might describe my morning walks with Winnie Lew, invigorating is not one of them. It takes roughly the same amount of time to do one lap with her as it does for me to get three in. Why? you are wondering. It seems that every night, the odor fairies leave delectable smells for Winnie Lew to discover each morning.

She approaches each scent with the dedication of a sommelier evaluating a vintage wine. Her nose twitches, her head tilts at precise angles, and she inhales with the kind of focus I reserve for sermon writing.

A particularly fascinating aroma near the magnolia might hold her attention for a full three minutes while I stand there, leash in hand, swatting away the pterodactyl-like gnats that insist on trying to make me their breakfast.

Today’s expedition began no differently. Winnie Lew emerged from our cottage with her usual enthusiasm, tail wagging and walking with a purpose. We made it approximately twenty feet before the first olfactory discovery brought our procession to a complete halt.

A patch of gravel had apparently been blessed by the scent gods overnight. It looked no different to me than it did the evening before, but clearly, I was mistaken. We finally moved on, Winnie Lew cautiously sniffing ahead and leaving her mark for others to enjoy.

I sometimes wonder what she’s thinking during these investigative pauses. Is she reading a newspaper of pheromones, catching up on the neighborhood gossip? “Ah yes, I see the Labradoodle from across the street has been eating chicken again,” or perhaps, “My goodness, that bulldog must have had quite the adventure last night.”

We rounded the curve in the driveway where an old oak stands sentinel. This is typically a hot spot in Winnie Lew’s aromatic tour, and today proved no exception. She circled the base three times, nose twitching with scientific precision, before deciding this particular spot required not just investigation but contribution.

After her deposit was carefully placed, she performed her ritualistic backward dance, her paws kicking up bits of grass and soil in what I can only assume is the canine equivalent of flushing. I piously picked up her offering. Winnie Lew decided to munch on some grass while I was completing my duty. That is another part of her ritual. It’s almost as if she feels she needs a salad prior to her kibble that comes after the walk.

As I looked up, I noticed something standing very still on the edge of the woods eyeing us. It looked like another dog, but I couldn’t quite be sure. The creature finally made a slight movement, and I realized that it wasn’t a dog at all. It was a fox. In my five years of living here, I’ve seen deer, rabbits, and raccoons, even the occasional possum – but never a fox.

It was stunning. A vibrant russet coat that seemed to glow, its white-tipped tail held perfectly horizontal, and those eyes – intelligent, calculating, and fixed directly on us. Winnie Lew, still munching contentedly on her breakfast greens, remained blissfully unaware of our observer.

I dared not move, afraid to break this rare moment of wild communion. The fox tilted its head slightly, in a gesture so reminiscent of Winnie Lew’s scent-evaluation pose that I nearly laughed aloud.

“Winnie Lew,” I whispered, not wanting to startle either animal. She glanced up at me mid-chew, bits of grass dangling from her mouth like a poorly maintained mustache.

The fox hadn’t moved. We were engaged in some sort of silent standoff, this wild creature and I, while my domesticated companion remained more interested in her impromptu salad than the remarkable wildlife encounter happening mere yards away.

Then Winnie Lew finished her grass, looked up, and froze. Her entire body went rigid, one paw still raised mid-step, as if someone had pressed a pause button on her very existence. The transformation was instantaneous and complete – my leisurely, scent-obsessed companion had suddenly remembered she was, at her core, still a predator.

Her ears perked forward, her fur fluffed up, and a low, almost inaudible whine escaped her throat. The fox, for its part, seemed equally transfixed. Neither animal moved. Of course, this would be the morning that I didn’t bring my phone along for this National Geographic-worthy photo.

I found myself holding my breath, acutely aware that I was witnessing something primal, something that predated fancy pink leashes, kibble, and morning constitutionals.

Then Winnie Lew did something I’d never seen her do before. She lowered herself into what could only be described as downward dog – front legs extended, rear end up in the air, tail wagging uncertainly. It was the universal canine invitation to play, though I suspected she wasn’t entirely sure what she was inviting.

The fox’s response was immediate and unexpected. Instead of bolting into the safety of the woods, it took three deliberate steps forward, paused, then sat down and regarded Winnie Lew with what I could only interpret as amused curiosity.

Winnie Lew, encouraged by this apparent acceptance of her social overture, seemed very pleased with herself and this chance encounter. She took a tentative step forward, and all I could think was this was not my idea of a morning puppy play date.

I didn’t realize that we were being watched. I heard a rustle in one of the trees behind me, and out shot MB, the wild man kitten from next door. Clearly, MB thought there was a party that he hadn’t been invited to. The fox, not looking for a feline friend, gave us a nod and darted back in the woods. “Really, MB?” I said to the fluffy black cat who had materialized from thin air like some sort of feline ninja. “You couldn’t have waited five more minutes?”

MB responded by flopping dramatically onto his side in the middle of the driveway, as if the effort of ruining our fox encounter had completely exhausted him. Winnie Lew stepped over him with the dignity of a queen forced to navigate around peasant children, but I caught her glancing back toward the woods one more time, hope flickering in her brown eyes.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” I muttered to my sulking dog.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the fox would return tomorrow, if we’d stumbled upon what might become a new morning ritual. How fitting that Winnie Lew, my methodical creature of habit, would be the one to remind me that routines don’t preclude surprises.

That even on the most well-worn paths, magic can appear if you open your eyes to it.