Coming Home to Story

Captain Midnight here, moonlighting as your rural correspondent.

Before my country sports report, I should say that having been tried and condemned in the court of public opinion, himself eventually purchased a belated but delicious marrow-bone for my birthday. Thank you to all of you who petitioned to establish my entitlement to a proper present.

Now, see that fellow in the photograph? There are lots of them about at the moment, flaunting themselves in the fields and woods around Kingscote. They’re just asking to be chased and I’m only too happy to oblige. It’s a good game, though I do think the way they jump into the sky and don’t come down is cheating. They wouldn’t stand a chance on the ground!

On the whole they’re pheasant little pluckers and I like ’em.

The trouble is that lots of unpheasant, tweed-clad, human pluckers keep taking potshots at them. Bang! Bang! Lead shot flying everywhere. Smell of death in the air. It’s enough to ruin a chap’s daily walk.

If it happens nearby, I demonstrate my disapproval by tucking my tail between my legs and bolting for home, in case one of the silly sods shoots me. Himself says that pheasants taste good but it still doesn’t seem right to blast away at unarmed creatures. Apparently it’s called “sport.” Doesn’t sound very sporting to me. Give them guns too, I say. Make a fair fight of it.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind humans killing animals for food.

As long as they do it properly.

With their teeth.