"Smile" Said the Fox

Back in November, I jetted off to a write-in event with moments to spare, apparently on auto-pilot since I drove to the wrong freakin' building on campus.  I wasn't psyched about going.  I didn't feel like writing.

As I steered around the bend--the long bed, far out of the way from where I was heading--I was suddenly taken aback by the sight of a statuesque fox, perched regally by the side of the road. The rust of his fur was so resemblant of burnt-sienna background the fallen leaves painted behind him that he hardly seemed real.  I pulled over immediately.

"Well, hello there," I said, rolling down my window. "Would you mind if I took your picture?" He turned his head toward me in tacit approval, allowing me to snap a few shots with my smart-phone camera, before he moved to make his way into a nearby drainage tunnel.

"Wait!" I urged. "Was there something you wanted to tell me?" Surely this animal encounter must have carried something of higher significance.

"Smile," he said slyly, as as only a fox could. With that, he disappeared.

Fox medicine is one of cunningness. So what did this beguiling creature--this master of camouflage--mean with his annoyingly curt and incomprehensible message?  Was he suggesting I exhibit more wile in my day-to-day encounters? Was he implying I'd been too open? Too gullible?  Too serious? Not serious enough? Or, was he just being himself, tormenting me with his trickery, knowing full well that I would analyze every aspect of this exchange for weeks and weeks to come until the answer--that he was being literal--finally hit me?

I'll give you one guess.  And at least I'm smiling about it. :)