.. Another mystery and a 'brush' with death
LIVING in the countryside tends to bring out a very competitive streak between me and my other half when it comes to observing wildlife, and since I'm the one who spends most of my time in the wonderful Scottish Borders while he toils over a hot stove at his London restaurant, it is usually me who clocks up more observational firsts.
I delight in calling him at 6.45am to say I've just spotted four deer crossing the lawn or later in the day telephone to say I'm watching two Peregrine falcons soar in the afternoon sun. Occasionally he'll get the odd text or email and sometimes photographic evidence of other delights I've seen as I bimble around the countryside.
Most of my encounters are pleasant or gobsmackingly awesome although I do admit on meeting my first badger we both freaked out and turned in opposite directions running as though the Devil himself was snapping at our heels. I always imagined badgers to be cuddly, about the size of a rabbit but this one looked like a clinically obese Staffordshire Bull on growth hormone treatment.
So I have to admit feeling some mild irritation and a touch of jealousy yesterday when hubby came hurtling into the house breathless urging me to come outside. In between gasps for oxygen he gabbled that he'd found a fox and that it was injured and possibly still alive.
I tried to adopt a singularly unimpressed expression as I slipped into my boots, sighed and followed him. However, I have to admit I was well impressed with his find as it was slightly off the beaten track and could not be seen unless you wandered into the edge of some woodland.
Since no one was prepared to venture right up to the beast to check for signs of life, it was difficult to judge if it was dead or barely alive and in the twilight our eyes began playing tricks as we thought we saw its chest rising slightly. Thankfully I had my walking stick with me - a rather grand, carved affair presented by a tribal elder in Darfur when I travelled to Sudan on a peace initiative several years ago. So I gingerly prodded the fox several times before declaring the animal well and truly dead.
We left the spot wondering how he had expired and noted there was a burrow of sorts in the ground by his nose. Perhaps it was his home, or maybe he was a she, a vixen, and if so could there be young cubs in the hole? Feeling protective towards my geese, turkeys and hens I needed to counsel a higher authority on the matter and so phoned a local gamekeeper relaying the drama. It was dusk so we all agreed to meet in the morning and at 8am we were surveying the scene.
Our man in tweeds and plus-fours came to the conclusion this was an old dog fox, pointing to the grey hairs around its face. Without a second thought he bent down and picked up the corpse for a quick inspection as we collectively stepped back in awe and marvelled at his daring. He declared the fox dead and pointed to some decomposition on its jawline as evidence it had died at least two days earlier. Checking its hindquarters he deduced the animal had been hit by a vehicle and must have crawled its way from the roadside into the woodland, possibly lying starving and injured for several days. The hole it lay next to was the entrance to a rabbit warren and he pointed to several other exits nearby. Summing up he said it was likely it had waited by the hole in a desperate bid to get some food but had been too weak, possibly from internal injuries, to survive.
We were all well impressed with the gamekeeper's CSI-style analysis and then, knowing we keep livestock, he warned that the body should be buried quickly before the smell of decomposition attracts more foxes to the area. At that point all eyes switched focus onto he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is ... well he did find it first place, didn't he? And so, after taking a pick and shovel from his workshop he headed back towards the body but just before he set off on his grave-digging mission I said it would be a shame to bury the tail as well since it was so bushy and quite magnificent.
Mr Fox's brush is now sitting in my freezer to preserve its amazing condition. Tomorrow I must find a local taxidermist to treat the tail, pictured left, which I think will look rather fetching on my bush hat although once my daughter reads this I've no doubt she will have designs on it as well!
LIVING in the countryside tends to bring out a very competitive streak between me and my other half when it comes to observing wildlife, and since I'm the one who spends most of my time in the wonderful Scottish Borders while he toils over a hot stove at his London restaurant, it is usually me who clocks up more observational firsts.
I delight in calling him at 6.45am to say I've just spotted four deer crossing the lawn or later in the day telephone to say I'm watching two Peregrine falcons soar in the afternoon sun. Occasionally he'll get the odd text or email and sometimes photographic evidence of other delights I've seen as I bimble around the countryside.
Most of my encounters are pleasant or gobsmackingly awesome although I do admit on meeting my first badger we both freaked out and turned in opposite directions running as though the Devil himself was snapping at our heels. I always imagined badgers to be cuddly, about the size of a rabbit but this one looked like a clinically obese Staffordshire Bull on growth hormone treatment.
So I have to admit feeling some mild irritation and a touch of jealousy yesterday when hubby came hurtling into the house breathless urging me to come outside. In between gasps for oxygen he gabbled that he'd found a fox and that it was injured and possibly still alive.
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| DEAD OR ALIVE? Mr Fox |
Since no one was prepared to venture right up to the beast to check for signs of life, it was difficult to judge if it was dead or barely alive and in the twilight our eyes began playing tricks as we thought we saw its chest rising slightly. Thankfully I had my walking stick with me - a rather grand, carved affair presented by a tribal elder in Darfur when I travelled to Sudan on a peace initiative several years ago. So I gingerly prodded the fox several times before declaring the animal well and truly dead.
We left the spot wondering how he had expired and noted there was a burrow of sorts in the ground by his nose. Perhaps it was his home, or maybe he was a she, a vixen, and if so could there be young cubs in the hole? Feeling protective towards my geese, turkeys and hens I needed to counsel a higher authority on the matter and so phoned a local gamekeeper relaying the drama. It was dusk so we all agreed to meet in the morning and at 8am we were surveying the scene.
 |
| WHODUNNIT: Another mystery grips the Soho 2 Silo crew |
We were all well impressed with the gamekeeper's CSI-style analysis and then, knowing we keep livestock, he warned that the body should be buried quickly before the smell of decomposition attracts more foxes to the area. At that point all eyes switched focus onto he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is ... well he did find it first place, didn't he? And so, after taking a pick and shovel from his workshop he headed back towards the body but just before he set off on his grave-digging mission I said it would be a shame to bury the tail as well since it was so bushy and quite magnificent.
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| TAIL END: Prized possession |
For those of us of a certain age, our first encounter with a badger has tended to imprint alongside the assassination of JFK. My encounter was in densely overgrown woodland in Gower, some 30 years ago, where an enormous badger trundled past me without the slightest fear or interest. Never seen one since - few of us spend much time in dense woodland, male politicians apart. This is a pity because you never see badgers in zoos, so people accept their poisoning with relative equanimity.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the share David - I should not have panicked and remained still like you. While wandering around some woodland nearby a friend of mine showed me a massive badger sett and so I will return towards dusk, one day, just to observe them close up but without the hysteria!
ReplyDelete