Frosty morning before shooting
The day started in what you might describe as a stimulating manner. Whilst I checked how much food Mace (my new ferret) had ferreted away in his nest, the little b*****d clearly got bored of being held and decided to take direct action by seizing my middle finger. When a ferret bites there are no half measures. The needle sharp canines go in hard and don't stop until they reach bone and having instinctively released my grasp on him it took me a few moments to work out what to do. During this pause Mace obviously decided that my finger tasted rather good and as ferrets do when they are given food, began heaving my hand with all his might back towards his nest. There is a conflict-of-interest when a domestic creature is painfully attached to your person, be it goose, cockatiel or ferret (I have experienced all three). Instinct suggests killing the attacker swiftly with a mortal blow from the other hand, whilst something deep inside calls for calm and keeping the creature alive. On this occasion I mustered every ounce of self-will, gently pulled the marauding Mustalid away from his run and gently put my foot on it. The sound of cracking bones would have been music to my ears, but with perfect restraint I pressed down slowly, just enough to distract him from his intended breakfast and my finger was free at last.
Having completed the animal round, trailing blood over every surface I touched, C and I headed out for a walk round with our guns. The weather was everything a hunting man could wish for and when we arrived at the far end of S’s farm, a hoarfrost still clung to the tusoky winter grass below a clear blue sky. Usually on such a day we would expect to see ducks, woodcock, pheasant and pigeons but on this occasion the first two were completely absent. Pheasants and pigeons were everywhere but a combination of bad luck and bad shooting meant that by lunchtime I had shot one woody and the only other creature in our game bag was a hen pheasant caught by Treacle between a double fence. Results aren't everything though and for once we cared little that our shots were wide and the pheasants low. It felt right to be out, two figures wandering the copses and hedgerows with the dog scampering here and there between us.
Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs (I'll be smoking more salmon soon and it seemed prudent to use up what was already in the freezer) set us up for the afternoon and we headed out to the other half of the farm to try our luck. Even more pheasants were to be found there but alas few flew within gunshot once they were put up by Treacle, save for one hen bird which rose through the wood and reached clear sky above the canopy before falling to my single shot. The day ended with two hen pheasants and two pigeons. I have already mentioned whence the pheasants came from and if I tell you that both the pigeons were mine you can work Mr. C’s success for yourself!
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