The Wild Life by John Lewis-Stempel

Author:John Lewis-Stempel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Transworld

Tisk. Tisk. Tisk. A robin endlessly repeats its alarm call in the hedge bordering the Grove. Tisk. Tisk. Tisk.

It is around eleven o’clock and Edith and I have tramped the forty acres, top to bottom. We have sat and observed, we have skulked and planned ambushes, but we have seen nothing to shoot at except three wood pigeons flying too fast across the face of the sun. So chill is the baby-blue air that it drills into my finger ends and will not let the ground defrost; there are still little dishes of ice in the hoof marks of the cattle.

Edith’s head has dropped, so I feel in my pocket for some dog biscuits, which she eats off my hand. I take off my shooting glove and put my right hand under her front right leg to warm my fingers. A fair exchange of food for heat.

Looking down towards the bog I know that there is something there, something hiding at the back where the crack willows flop over. But what is it? Another rabbit probably. And if it is a rabbit from the warren whose burrows in the Grove hedge I am presently standing outside, it might be induced to run for home along the dry bank at the bog’s edge.

‘Let’s go, Edie,’ I say, and we start downhill towards the bog, tacking left. I need to work round behind whatever is in the bog, so that I am shooting up our own land and not into the Grove’s field. Shooting behind a fleeing rabbit is not ideal because it lessens the chances of a clean kill: the target area is smaller, the prey is going with the direction of shot. But it is this shot or no shot. At the back of the bog we skirt along the Copse Field hedge towards the rabbit. Twenty yards into the bog and nothing has moved.

If I go any further in, I am going to be hopelessly stuck, because the firm ground runs out. This is the mouth of the bog, where it gathers its surplus water before allowing it to seep into the drainage ditch of Copse Field below it.

Time to send in Edith. ‘Edith, go on!’ I point to the corner of the bog under the willows. Edith looks up at me sheepishly.

There is something about Edith that I have not dared tell anyone, for fear of ridicule. Edith does not like getting her paws muddy. Faced with a puddle, she will jump over it; faced with the bog, she will leap with balletic grace from one clump of rushes to the next.

Edith does not want to go into the nasty wet smelly bog. I do not want to repeat the command because if one repeats a command the dog has negotiated with you. Dogs should not negotiate. Dogs should do. I remain quiet with my finger pointing.

Edith begins her audition for the English National Ballet Company. An arabesque. A glissade. A quite lovely tour en l’air. An absolutely remarkable pirouette piquée.

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