Foxes have become such a familiar part of many urban landscapes that seeing one no longer feels unusual. Yet familiarity can have an unexpected effect. The more often we encounter a species, the easier it becomes to think in terms of “foxes” rather than this fox.
We don’t tend to apply the same logic to ourselves. Human beings are abundant too – more than eight billion of us – yet we continue to recognise each person as an individual. Their uniqueness isn’t diminished by the number of others around them.
Why do we find it easier to do that for our own species than for others?
I’ve been thinking about this recently in relation to commercial fishing, where language such as “tonnes”, “stocks”, and “quotas” can subtly shift our focus away from individuals and towards numbers. Scale has a way of changing perception. The larger the group, the easier it can become to overlook the lives that make it up.
Yet seeing a fox still holds a unique experience for me, despite how often they cross my path. A thriving population doesn’t diminish the encounter. If anything, it deepens my appreciation of their adaptability.
When I see a fox, I don’t see an abstract idea of “foxes”. I see an individual navigating a world that overlaps with my own – alert, resourceful, and shaped by experiences I can only imagine. Not simply a member of a species, but a neighbour.
