When fox hunting goes wrong! |
Old Cunning. By Stephen A Abell – Monday, 9th January 2023. Number of Words – 299. The blackbird glided from the old oak through the archway and into the courtyard. He had seen the Foxhound skulking around, probably chasing titbits. However, when he landed, the dog was in mid-conversation with an Arabian horse. “…well, it turned out to be leftovers an’ they binned ’em. Shame, they smelt tasty.” “That’s all you think about, food!” “What else is there worth talking about?” “How about today’s hunt for a start?” “Well, more fuel for the fire…” “Food, again!” “So, you’re still doing what they want?” The blackbird chirped in. “We can’t all be free like you,” the horse whinnied. “But what if you could? What would you rather be doing today?” “Well, the hound here would likely be stuffing his snout.” “Not true! It looks lovely today. I’d love to go play in the river an’ then snooze in the sunshine.” The stallion turned his head, looking through the archway. “It does look nice. I’d like to canter through the fields and woods. Without one of them on my back.” “Then do it?” The bird tweeted. “How?” Horse and hound asked. The Fox lay in the long undergrowth and watched Blackie relay his plan. When the hunters and their entourage walked into the yard to mount up, snarling and gnashing dogs greeted them. The horses reared and kicked with their hooves. Bones broke. Skin tore. Blood ran. The humans died. From the undergrowth, the fox and the bird watched. “Go tell the dogs to run,” old cunning said. “The humans'll blame them. They’ll say the horses are blameless. They were frightened - the deaths caused by them called accidents. The hounds'll be killed. Tell them to flee. To find worthy homes with food, warm fires, and strokes, but trust no human. The blackbird took to the wing. |