When I was a lad in Ohio, I looked forward to New Year's Day, when hunters, farmers and the curious assembled for the annual "fox hunt."
We would gather around the perimeter of the designated site, a tract of land roughly one mile square, and at the same time, all would start walking toward the center, whooping, hollering and beating the bushes. Some were armed with shotguns, clubs or simply a loud voice. The objective was to drive the fox toward the center until it was trapped "foxed in."
In the several years my best friend Dave and I participated, we never saw a fox, let alone shot one. This did nothing to dampen our enthusiasm; our "thrill" was the hunt, not nabbing a guilty fox.