this could be a short post about the beautiful english countryside. this could be an embroidered post about going hunting with some nice lords. this could be a nice little story about sunsets, bleating sheep and muddy paths. but it will not be any of those. this will be a tale about the pheasant who committed suicide.
yes. that’s right. this weekend i watched a pheasant commit suicide.
there we were, cheerfully enjoying a sunny afternoon in the hills surrounding highclere castle (downton abbey, you know..) the local hunters were out and about and we watched from afar pheasants going down and being picked up by well-trained hounds. our own dog we kept in her leash. just to be on the safe side.
in the middle of the greenest hill it happened. little mrs pheasant comes strolling towards us. we stop and watch her as she approaches. first the pheasant walks up to the butler, who tries to scare her off. she gives him an offended look, obviously he doesn’t understand what she needs from him. then she sees the pooch, standing there looking at her, and decides to give it a go. with confident steps she proceeds and now everything seems to be happening in slow-motion. the hound opens her mouth, clearly thinking this must be a wet dream, and lo and behold, the damn bird walks head first straight in. with a baffled look the dog closes her mouth and turns around with a “look what i caught”-look on her face (after all, she is a springer spaniel).