Some thoughts on rabbits
Living in the country its problematic to like them, particularly given the veritable hatred that farmers have for them (those holes can be problems for the cows apparently). There are the regulars who like to kill them of course, generally accountants and stockbroker types with a bloodlust or weird yokels. Quite why sending a terrier down a warren is something that grown men should consider acceptable is quite beyond me.
In view of my quaint opinions, Pappa Country Boy tends to warn me now when neighbouring farmer typee has consented to a kill so that I can avoid the area.
Initially I thought this was rather sweet. That he was mindful of my animal hugging sensibilities. It transpired however, one sherry fuelled Sunday that he was worried about
a)the fact that Scruffbag slightly resembles a fox and one gun happy local loon may apply bullet to dog and/or
b)that Scruffbag being some percentage terrier may herself feel the need to join in some rabbit hunting, in which case I would at the very least withdraw her Bonio privileges and possible cart her straight back to the sanctuary and/or
c)having heard about an "incident" after the kill my first year living here, Pappa was concerned about protecting the local gun toting loons from little moi.
"How come?" I here you cry. Well in summary, Country girl and Scruffbag walking past the pub, rabbit killers sitting outside having pints, (knew they were rabbit killers from presence of rabbits(dead), terriers (a bit bloodied and hyper), guns (yes indeed) and combat wear (no idea perhaps they think it looks good on them?).
Anyway, bunny killers clearly wanted female attention and attempted to attract passing Country Girl's, who promptly ignored them - well I would, my name isn't babe and I'm not a dog so don't respond to whistling. Sadly Scruffbag does and at least gave them a wag and pulled towards them.
At this point, me dragging her away, still ignoring bunny killing blokes a particularly gross ginger one said something along the lines of "what sort of fucking dog is that, I might shoot that thing".
The wrong thing to say? Yes indeedy and he was treated to a rather Mancunian version of my thoughts on his bunny murdering and general inbred lack of intellect before I stomped off.
Anyway an acquaintance of Poppa Country Boy's relayed the deeply amusing tale to him and he off course guessed that mad girl with scruffy dog was little me. End result those bunny killers now not allowed anywhere near Poppa's land and neighbouring farmer typee not impressed by their lack of courtesy to a young lady has also told them to desist. (he gets his son and mates to sort it now - don't even get me started on my views on this one as he took his four year old to a kill).
Anyway that's that bit explained.Right where were we? Oh yes and /or
d) despite being a true country born and bred type Pappa Country Boy is a tad cuddly and really doesn't like bunny killing himself.
As much as I disapprove of the sport, or the cruelty increasingly I do understand that they can be a problem if numbers aren't kept down. A true dilemma for me.
The other side however of the bunny death debate is that similarly it is sadly not unusual for Country girl to stumble across a bunny with myxamotosis (its on Wiki if you really want to know but its truly horrid) and the dilemma is then of course that the kindest thing is to put them out of their misery. Country boy has done this in the past but would never do it in front of me of course. But for the record despite my initial horror I actually applaud him for having the courage to do it , a true act of kindness rather than leaving them to die an agonising death over days if not weeks.
This weekend (and the point of this tale which has rather deviated was an occurrence this weekend).
Sunday of course, so off for Sunday dinner. I was dawdling rather, taking snaps of the orchard and blackberries - yes I do need to get out more), partly to delay the impending enforced sherry fest.
Rabbit Rescue
Then it happened, I heard a frenzied squeaking, looked up and saw a whirling ball of fur speeding down the orchard. The squeaking was quite ear piercing and definitely a sign of something being hurt. Scruff bag had heard it too and was running in the direction of the fur ball. What could I do? something had to be done, I shrieked at Scruffbag and the as yet unidentified fur ball and ran after it. Country boy came running too and beat me to the fur bundle. My shrieks continued (loud enough it transpires to move Mamma Country boy to leave the car racing on TV and come see what was happening).
I had Scruffbag back under control, though she was still hyped having seen fur which let's face it she wanted to chase. My screams and the presence of Scruffbag and Country boy meant the fur ball split in two. One half ran off, a blur of brown, identified by country boy as a stoat (should have guessed that they were the nasty ones in Wind of the Willows weren't they??). The other half just lay there on the ground. I rushed over still shouting at Scruffbag to leave while Country boy checked it was OK, standing rather pointedly to obstruct my view just in case it wasn't). But the second half of the fur ball was fine, a bit dazed and confused but otherwise fine. He was duly picked up by Country Boy to check over and confirmed as just fine.
With camera still in hand I took a snap, (no flash of course can't scare bunny), and here he is below:
We parked him back on the grass and after a little rest and a chomp of grass he scampered off. And we scampered off too, mainly to reassure Momma Country Boy that we weren't having a domestic in her orchard.
TTFN.
