~ Cry For The Fox ~

by

Dorothy Bodoin

Fur Is Dead.

The letters were bleeding, drops of bright red blood dripping down the white canvas like tears. I came to a standstill at the edge of the crowd that had gathered to watch the disturbance in front of Warrington’s Department Store, my eyes transfixed on the words.

The small silver-haired woman who marched at the head of a line of orderly demonstrators held her picket high, as if it were a standard. In her blue cardigan, that looked too heavy for the warm October day, she was a dignified, neatly dressed matron who had taken to the street on behalf of the animals.

Fifteen people had turned out to march in front of the store’s display window, newly decorated to promote Warrington’s first trunk show. The event was part of a special "Shop Lakeville" week, designed to lure customers with selections of designer dresses, pricey jewelry, and furs brought in from New York.

Three reed-thin mannequins, wrapped snugly in fur coats, stood on the leaf-strewn floor of the window. Frozen in graceful poses and clutching beaded evening bags in their lifeless hands, they advertised elegance and promised dreams.

But at what cost? Blood--or the best prices of the season, depending on one’s point of view.

The demonstration was cleverly timed to coincide with the first day of the trunk show, and the unseasonable seventy degrees might have been specially ordered to suggest that fur was much too warm for comfort.

"But notice that leaves are falling from the maple trees that line Grove Street," the mannequins seemed to say. "Winter is coming. You’ll need a fur coat then."

I looked in the display window again. Long mink coats with full shawl collars, a matching hat, a fox headband--they were hideous. The mere thought of wearing the coat of a slaughtered animal made my arms feel itchy under my cotton sleeves.

Fur Is Dead. I didn’t need to be convinced.

The picketers were a restrained and courteous group. No one attempted to stop a customer from walking through Warrington’s doors. They allowed their painted slogans to speak for themselves: Real People Wear Fake Fur, Protect the Fox (a sentiment unlikely to garner sympathy in the heart of Michigan’s fox hunting country), and over and over again the acronym M.A.R.A. in bold black letters.

"M.A.R.A.?" I didn’t realize I’d spoken the word aloud.

"It stands for Militant Animal Rights Activists. Those animal rights people again. They’re everywhere."

The voice was loud, almost petulant. The speaker, a willowy blonde woman next to me, glanced at her watch. Over her pink turtleneck she wore a brown vest trimmed with fur. "I don’t have time for this. Someone ought to call the police."

"They seem peaceful enough, and they’re not stopping people from entering," I said. "Just walk on in."

She didn’t challenge my statement, but she didn’t move either. No one was moving, except for the demonstrators.

I was going to Warrington’s myself. Maybe. Until five minutes ago, that had been my intent.

I had a strong affinity for the Animal Rights Movement. The sight of a fur coat made me wish I had a can of spray paint in my purse. But Saturday was the only day of the week I had time to browse in the stores. Today I planned to take advantage of Warrington’s trunk show to shop for a dress, something bright, classy, and unique. I wouldn’t go near the fur coats.

The blonde said, "The activists must be following the trunk shows. Last month I saw them at Madeline’s down in Rochester. I like animals as well as the next person, but these groups go too far. They’re fanatic."

This sweeping indictment was met with murmurs of agreement and assorted grumblings. A portly man, who wore his Detroit baseball team’s Tigers cap, with the old English D, pulled down low on his forehead, shouted, "M.A.R.A., go home!"

"We are home."

The woman who spoke these words was tall, statuesque, and dressed in brown. Her long skirt swept down to her ankles, and she wore a dark cowl-neck sweater. A beige shawl provided sharp contrast for the mass of chestnut hair that tumbled around her shoulders.

She detached herself from the middle of the picket line and walked deliberately up to the man wearing the Tigers cap. "Wherever animals are suffering or being exploited, that is M.A.R.A’s home."

Her voice was soft and melodious, her tone arresting. Around her, sound seemed to cease, even the footfalls of the picketers. I could hear the rustle of a leaf as it drifted down to the pavement.

The Tigers cap man swore loudly into the silence. "You’re all a bunch of crazies. Get the hell out of our town!"

But he was the one who crossed to the other side of the street and walked away with never a backward glance.

The chestnut-haired woman appeared unshaken by the encounter. She walked over to the curb. The small woman, the standard bearer, had stepped out of the line and laid her sign down on the ground to retie her shoelace.

The two women stood together talking softly, while the line moved on without them. I was about to go into the store when a squeal of tires and the roar of a revving engine cut into the silence. A white car careened down Grove Street, traveling dangerously close to the sidewalk. When the driver was about nine yards from the women, he swerved into the no parking zone in front of the store. Slowing to a rolling stop, he leaned over in the passenger’s seat and shouted something through the half-open window. I couldn’t make out his words, but the heckling tone was unmistakable.