A
friend recently took to her Facebook page in grief stricken exasperation having
lost several chickens to the local fox, and announced her intention to go out
with her gun, find the fox, and “blast the bastard”.
For
anyone who has ever kept, or even just lived with hens as I have, I understood
completely the shock and heartbreak. I remember well waking up to the sight of
feathers everywhere, and knowing that one of the girls I considered something
of a pal, who’d roosted on my back doorstep, and followed me around, clucking
and chatting, had met with a horrible and violent end.
I
remember the sadness and the pain that I would never see her again. The war-cry
for ‘revenge’ on the fox which had carried her off however, and as expressed by
my friend on her page, was not something to which I could relate.
The
fox was just… being a fox. Living in the country, one expects such heartbreak.
It goes with the territory. If you can’t hack it, don’t keep poultry, or move
to the city. It’s part of country life.
So,
some would claim, is hunting.
I
disagree.
Being
a “part of country life” is just one of the various ‘reasons’ that those who mount
horses and take to the fields to hunt down and destroy foxes with packs of baying
hounds often give for their activity - an activity that is condemned by three
quarters of the British population, not just in urban, but in rural areas too,
as blood-lusting, barbaric, base, unworthy, anachronistic, and unnecessary.
The
overriding reason would seem to be a wish for towering and theatrical revenge
on a species of wildlife that occasionally robs humans - and their stomachs - of
their omelettes and their Sunday roasts.
The
rest really is just a load of old flannel, and I would have a lot more respect
for a great many who indulge in this viciousness if they would simply admit
they just love a good gallop across the English countryside with a nice brutal
murder at the end of it.
But
still the specious excuses bubble out, like effluence from a sewer pipe.
Foxes
kill for fun! Hunt supporters claim. They are a blight that must be purged from
the land.
How
do they know? Do they speak fox? Have they asked a fox what it gets out of decimating
a hen house, yet apparently carrying off only one chicken?
The
answer would appear to be that humans simply don’t give them time to finish the
job.
Evidence
suggests that if such ‘crime’ scenes were to be left undisturbed, the fox would
be back to take all the poultry killed to store underground as carrion, but as
soon as humans discover the scene, they batten down the hatches, remove the
dead fowl to their own freezers (oh well, we were going to eat them sooner or
later), and shriek that foxes are psychopaths who go mad killing everything in
sight like ASBOs out for Saturday night kicks. Inform the Hunt immediately –
that bastard fox has run off with our dinner!
Hunting
is the best and most humane way, they claim. They don’t suffer. It’s quick.
Hounds are efficient. It’s not cruel.
Again,
have they asked a fox? Are they foxes? How do they know they don’t suffer?
Vets
who have examined the corpses of foxes killed by packs of hounds tend also to
demur on this. Post-mortem studies published by veterinarians report evidence
of muscle and tissue damage, blood loss and other injuries indicative of
prolonged, painful, and traumatic deaths.
But
foxes kill lambs too, say hunters. They have to go!
So
do domestic dogs off the lead of course, but foxes are the ‘pest’. They’re ‘vermin’.
And
why do we raise sheep and their lambs? For their wool, and again, so we can eat
them.
Once
more, it comes down to humans, and their sense of entitlement to use other
species for their own ends in whatever way they wish. For food. For clothing.
For lanolin. For whatever.
So
what of badgers? Why do they have to die? Surely we don’t eat them?
No, but they give cows tuberculosis!
Even
though the connection between bovine TB and badgers still hasn’t actually been
proven conclusively, it’s still good enough for most people. We have to save
the cows. Farmers will die / be forced to find alternative ways to earn a
living if we don’t!
People
need cows. People rely on cattle for… food, and butter, and milk for their
cornflakes. They need their bones to make jelly and gummy sweeties shaped like
stars and fried eggs, and they need their skin for shoes and belts and jackets and
car seat covers and bags...
Ok,
so what crime have stags committed? Well, they’ve sired too many young, and there
are too many deer. It’s bad for the environment. They eat saplings and destroy
tree bark. And why are there too many deer? Because they were overbred for ‘sport’
in the 19th century, and have no natural predators. And why have
they no natural predators? Because humans have hunted their predators to
extinction because humans felt threatened by them… and wanted their pelts for
rugs and coats for themselves.
And
what of hares? Why are they hunted with hounds? What have they done?
Well,
they run fast, and it’s fun to see if a dog can catch up with one…
Ahhh….there
we have it at last.
Fun.
As
a young, fit, masochistic undercover anti of 23, with a pair of stout boots, a
wax-jacket, and a ‘posh’ voice, I blended sufficiently to be in a position to
follow a Beagle hunt back in the day. I felt I needed to see for myself. To
back-up my anti-hunting stance with experience. I wanted to be able to speak
from strength next time a hunt supporter attempted to justify themselves to me.
The
antis were out in force, and I felt the weight of their hate.
“Oh
just look at them…” observed my companions in disgust. “Fucking hippies.”
I
said nothing. Nothing, that is, until I saw the hare tear out of the woodland
pursued by some 40 hounds. Tears sprang into my eyes as I willed it to get
away. I prayed to the old gods, fists clenched as, unable to take the sight in
silence any longer, I screamed: “Run, little brother, run!”
I
remember the look of astonishment on the faces of the antis, then seeing their
grins as the hare got away.
I punched the air, and yelled: “YES!”
The
antis and I exchanged looks and discreet thumbs-ups. They realised what I had
been up to.
So
did my companions, but then they knew me to be a bit of a looney. All the best
families have at least one. They were more concerned with the fact that they
needed to get drunk as soon as possible, as it had not been a “good day” – and it
had apparently not been a “good day” because there had not been a kill.
I
needed conduct no further research. I had all I required to arrive at my
considered conclusion about hunting.
Pest
control?
Bollocks.
It was all about the kill.
It
still is. I have seen nothing over the intervening 28 years to alter this
conclusion, and if someone’s idea of ‘fun’ is to run an animal into exhaustion
and see it torn limb from limb, they should be in therapy in a secure
institution, not splashed on the covers of sycophantic newspapers up and down
the country, enjoying a laugh and a stirrup cup before indulging their
sickness.
Another
conclusion I have reached is that if humans were to leave the natural world to
manage itself, balance would probably be restored pretty quickly.
 |
| Thanks for sorting out the rats, Reynard... |
Far
from being ‘vermin’ or a ‘pest’, foxes are in fact, very efficient dustmen. No
need to throw food into the recycling, leave it for the fox. When a pigeon flew
into the plate glass window at my last employment, it was me, the wishy-washy
veggie hippy, who placed its body in my car to take to a friend’s for their
local fox family. The meat-eaters with whom I worked couldn’t even bear to
touch it (humans have an amazing facility for disconnect when it suits us).
As
for urban foxes, I was only too glad of their help when living on a
rat-infested London street. The rubbish left strewn around on the pavement
thanks to the fried chicken joint just beyond the railway bridge in the middle
of my road brought the foxes, and they dealt with the rats – some of which were
‘super rats’ the size of Chihuahuas.
None
of the above would have been an issue had it not been for humans and their
disgusting habits, and their entitled belief that someone somewhere, will
always clean up their mess.
In
a great many instances, that someone is the fox, and when they’re gone, we can
congratulate ourselves on a job well done as we suffocate in our own filth.
KEEP
THE BAN.
©
Emmeline Wyndham - 2015
