Post by bodger on Aug 29, 2008 6:23:49 GMT -6
Stanley asked me what I did with my dogs. This is a short article that I wrote in 1985 before the laws in the UK became really stupid.
A Search in the Storm for a Chicken Killing Fox. By PC Alec Brown Nov 1985
True to form, I was in the middle of nowhere on a bleak Derbyshire hillside when I first noticed the tell tale signs of a pending storm. I consciously lengthened my stride and the dogs knowingly tucked themselves in at my feet and offered no resistance to the increased pace.
As the brooding pack of clouds closed in on me, I felt mildly hunted and as the rain began to fall in nearly horizontal sheets I made a dive for cover. My chosen refuge was a small pothole secreted away on the hillside overlooking a sweeping expanse of valley floor.
A stunted hawthorn formed a natural umbrella at the entrance to my retreat and it was from this lonely vantage point that I watched the rain crash down and the thunder and lightning rend the air.
Whilst their master seemed impressed by what was happening. The dogs certainly weren’t and they huddled up together miserably as far from the wet as caninely possible.
The dogs that had had the misfortune to be included in today’s outing were my two Lakeland pups and that arch villain, my Saluki lurcher Brig.
For some reason best known to himself, Brig had been surprisingly tolerant of the pups and he seemed the least perturbed of the three by the violence of the storm. He took advantage of the enforced stop to do a little first aid upon a dew claw that he had managed to catch on a dry stone wall.
The storm left as quickly as it had come and went off marauding further down the valley to catch someone else unawares.
I’d finished my tour of duty at 2.00pm after a particularly hectic and somewhat depressing shift. In my job, an ability to switch off and to forget work is an absolute necessity for survival. My way of doing this, my therapy if you like, is to go hunting with my dogs, shooting and sometimes fishing.
My destination today was a well established fox earth in a small copse of hawthorn and gorse that was situated quite close to a sheep farm. The farmer had given me a ring in sheer desperation. On the phone he spoke to me in a very agitated manner and it didn’t take long to get the gist of what was wrong and the reason for his rage. On this occasion it wasn’t the loss of lambs but the carnage that he’d discovered only five minutes earlier in his chicken shed. Twenty three chickens butchered by Reynard.
Chicken is not a word that summed up the loss to my friend, as those birds represented a fair proportion of a life’s work in game fowl keeping.
If I may digress just a little here? It was through a mutual interest in Old English game Fowl that I gained permission to several hundred acres of land. This had all stemmed from seeing his splendid birds running loose by his farm house, a polite word over the wall, a few knowledgeable comments and I made a valuable acquisition and a good friend.
Anyway back to business, for this had happened in the past and the once proud birds now lay dead and there was a fox to be caught. I approached the earth as quietly as possible. This may seem an obvious part of the overall strategy for accounting for a fox but believe you me, I can tell you from experience that there are many who approach the holes laughing and shouting amongst themselves and then proceed to clod hop above their quarry before trying to persuade it to vacate it’s lair.
Perhaps, I’m a little strange in that I’m not very fond of digging and would much rather bolt a fox rather than go in for major earth workings?
There are of course many occasions where, in spite of stealth digging is unavoidable but I’m sure that a lot of hard work could be avoided if people employed just a modicum of commonsense to their terrier work.
The earth in question was a six hole affair. The first thing to be seen was the remains of the one bird that had actually been taken from the chicken shed. I quickly pegged the two terriers out a discreet distance away in order to keep them as calm as possible whilst I prepared for the assault.
Nets were put on three awkward holes and Brig was put in a commanding position overlooking the other three. If the fox were to bolt from these holes, then Brig would be left with a clear run down the hill and across the valley floor. When everything was in readiness, Moss my 12 month old Lakeland bitch was brought up to have her first sniff.
She had been to earth before on two previous occasions and had performed reasonably. At the entrance to the earth, she froze, sucked up the strong scent of fox and went straight to ground. Five minutes of silence elapsed before any sound came from below and then Moss began to bay in a very excited manner. She had obviously come upon her fox.
This went on for another ten minutes or so and in all this time the bitches barking became more and more heated. After a while she began to emit some very throaty growls, interspersed with the odd yelp. She was obviously making it very hot down there for the occupants of the earth.
Upon top meanwhile, Brig was beginning to whine in anticipation and he caused me to hiss a warning to him about his manners. He continued to cock his ears towards the sound of the subterranean battle as if he was monitoring it by radar. Suddenly he stiffened and transferred his attention to the hole furthest down the bank. A definite rustling sound could be heard!
At least one fox had had enough and was preparing to make what it had hoped would be a dash for freedom. There was no need to quieten Brig now. He knew that any impetuous noise at this stage could send his quarry back to ground. Although half expecting it, I was till surprised when there was russet flash and the fox was off and running.
It made off at great speed with its rudder streaming out astern. The previously frozen Brig was galvanised into action and shot off in pursuit. Running downhill the race was a mismatch and my dog quickly overhauled a fairly small vixen and picked it up with nonchalance. My own breathless run to despatch it was unnecessary as Brig had already done the job.
I returned to the earth to find Moss waiting for me. She had several puncture wounds on her nose and around the eyes but she was more concerned with what I’d done with her fox.
As I was putting her back onto the coupler with her frustrated partner, there was a loud crack of thunder and the ground seemed to shake. I looked skyward and saw that the storm had decided to return and finish the job. I had been so wrapped up in the thrill of the hunt that it had managed to surround me and take me unawares. Once again I lengthened my stride in an attempt to escape its wrath but this time my efforts were futile and I was thoroughly soaked by the time that I had gained the sanctuary of my car. There is nothing like a long car journey in wet clothes to put the final touches to a day on the hills.
A Search in the Storm for a Chicken Killing Fox. By PC Alec Brown Nov 1985
True to form, I was in the middle of nowhere on a bleak Derbyshire hillside when I first noticed the tell tale signs of a pending storm. I consciously lengthened my stride and the dogs knowingly tucked themselves in at my feet and offered no resistance to the increased pace.
As the brooding pack of clouds closed in on me, I felt mildly hunted and as the rain began to fall in nearly horizontal sheets I made a dive for cover. My chosen refuge was a small pothole secreted away on the hillside overlooking a sweeping expanse of valley floor.
A stunted hawthorn formed a natural umbrella at the entrance to my retreat and it was from this lonely vantage point that I watched the rain crash down and the thunder and lightning rend the air.
Whilst their master seemed impressed by what was happening. The dogs certainly weren’t and they huddled up together miserably as far from the wet as caninely possible.
The dogs that had had the misfortune to be included in today’s outing were my two Lakeland pups and that arch villain, my Saluki lurcher Brig.
For some reason best known to himself, Brig had been surprisingly tolerant of the pups and he seemed the least perturbed of the three by the violence of the storm. He took advantage of the enforced stop to do a little first aid upon a dew claw that he had managed to catch on a dry stone wall.
The storm left as quickly as it had come and went off marauding further down the valley to catch someone else unawares.
I’d finished my tour of duty at 2.00pm after a particularly hectic and somewhat depressing shift. In my job, an ability to switch off and to forget work is an absolute necessity for survival. My way of doing this, my therapy if you like, is to go hunting with my dogs, shooting and sometimes fishing.
My destination today was a well established fox earth in a small copse of hawthorn and gorse that was situated quite close to a sheep farm. The farmer had given me a ring in sheer desperation. On the phone he spoke to me in a very agitated manner and it didn’t take long to get the gist of what was wrong and the reason for his rage. On this occasion it wasn’t the loss of lambs but the carnage that he’d discovered only five minutes earlier in his chicken shed. Twenty three chickens butchered by Reynard.
Chicken is not a word that summed up the loss to my friend, as those birds represented a fair proportion of a life’s work in game fowl keeping.
If I may digress just a little here? It was through a mutual interest in Old English game Fowl that I gained permission to several hundred acres of land. This had all stemmed from seeing his splendid birds running loose by his farm house, a polite word over the wall, a few knowledgeable comments and I made a valuable acquisition and a good friend.
Anyway back to business, for this had happened in the past and the once proud birds now lay dead and there was a fox to be caught. I approached the earth as quietly as possible. This may seem an obvious part of the overall strategy for accounting for a fox but believe you me, I can tell you from experience that there are many who approach the holes laughing and shouting amongst themselves and then proceed to clod hop above their quarry before trying to persuade it to vacate it’s lair.
Perhaps, I’m a little strange in that I’m not very fond of digging and would much rather bolt a fox rather than go in for major earth workings?
There are of course many occasions where, in spite of stealth digging is unavoidable but I’m sure that a lot of hard work could be avoided if people employed just a modicum of commonsense to their terrier work.
The earth in question was a six hole affair. The first thing to be seen was the remains of the one bird that had actually been taken from the chicken shed. I quickly pegged the two terriers out a discreet distance away in order to keep them as calm as possible whilst I prepared for the assault.
Nets were put on three awkward holes and Brig was put in a commanding position overlooking the other three. If the fox were to bolt from these holes, then Brig would be left with a clear run down the hill and across the valley floor. When everything was in readiness, Moss my 12 month old Lakeland bitch was brought up to have her first sniff.
She had been to earth before on two previous occasions and had performed reasonably. At the entrance to the earth, she froze, sucked up the strong scent of fox and went straight to ground. Five minutes of silence elapsed before any sound came from below and then Moss began to bay in a very excited manner. She had obviously come upon her fox.
This went on for another ten minutes or so and in all this time the bitches barking became more and more heated. After a while she began to emit some very throaty growls, interspersed with the odd yelp. She was obviously making it very hot down there for the occupants of the earth.
Upon top meanwhile, Brig was beginning to whine in anticipation and he caused me to hiss a warning to him about his manners. He continued to cock his ears towards the sound of the subterranean battle as if he was monitoring it by radar. Suddenly he stiffened and transferred his attention to the hole furthest down the bank. A definite rustling sound could be heard!
At least one fox had had enough and was preparing to make what it had hoped would be a dash for freedom. There was no need to quieten Brig now. He knew that any impetuous noise at this stage could send his quarry back to ground. Although half expecting it, I was till surprised when there was russet flash and the fox was off and running.
It made off at great speed with its rudder streaming out astern. The previously frozen Brig was galvanised into action and shot off in pursuit. Running downhill the race was a mismatch and my dog quickly overhauled a fairly small vixen and picked it up with nonchalance. My own breathless run to despatch it was unnecessary as Brig had already done the job.
I returned to the earth to find Moss waiting for me. She had several puncture wounds on her nose and around the eyes but she was more concerned with what I’d done with her fox.
As I was putting her back onto the coupler with her frustrated partner, there was a loud crack of thunder and the ground seemed to shake. I looked skyward and saw that the storm had decided to return and finish the job. I had been so wrapped up in the thrill of the hunt that it had managed to surround me and take me unawares. Once again I lengthened my stride in an attempt to escape its wrath but this time my efforts were futile and I was thoroughly soaked by the time that I had gained the sanctuary of my car. There is nothing like a long car journey in wet clothes to put the final touches to a day on the hills.