Chapter Text
Puppy mills were illegal. That much was known, throughout the USA. Puppy mills were absolutely illegal. No one ever said anything about fox mills. Foxes were, surprisingly, very good pets when well trained, and plenty of families wanted them. It was a shame that they couldn't just take a kit from the wild; however, since that was were where most foxes were born. Some people, however, decided to capture foxes, breed them in captivity and work every last kit out of them until they finally died, or were unable to give any more. It was a dirty, gruesome work that they did, and very very illegal. These were the circumstances that a small litter of kits, only four of them, were born into; their first home was a dirty, foul smelling cage, inside a dark, musty, bacterium filled warehouse, with a weak mother that could barely provide enough milk for the kits. Still, she tried, urging them to drink and stay quiet, not wanting to alert the owner of the mill to their presence. Two weeks into their lives, the afore-mentioned owner burst into the warehouse, eyes wild and fearful. Someone had ratted him out to the police, and they were getting a search warrant now, to come find the mill. They'd find it, and he'd be imprisoned for life.
Unless...
The madman, without thinking, grabbed up a rifle, loading it, and started at the farthest edge of the long rows of cages with a large leather sack, opening the cage and shooting the canine inside, then shoving it into the sack. He continued this until he had a full sack; just room enough for the last one. Wasn't it his surprise when he opened it up and saw a mother nursing four kits? He faltered for a moment, staring at the babies, but his resolve quickly hardened again and he aimed his rifle, shooting the mother between the eyes. The kits cried as he pulled her away and stuffed her into the sack, and he paused, looking down at them. "I'll give you a chance, I suppose," He finally grumbled, and grabbed a separate sack, placing the kits in it. He tossed both bags onto the seat of his truck and began to drive. Once he was fifteen miles away from his warehouse, he tossed out the bag of dead foxes, and, stopping the truck, he got out and set down the kits, leaving the bag open for fresh air, and drove off. The kits were wailing inside the bag, and they finally tumbled out, just as a car drove by. It was their luck that the car slowed down, the human inside assessing the situation, as they stumbled around, crying for their mother.