SEEING THE LIGHT 

By Peter Woodgate 

Brad opened the gate to the chicken enclosure and gasped in despair, there were feathers everywhere. He immediately had a headcount, “one missing, now that’s odd” Brad thought. “Can’t be a fox, they normally slaughter everything in sight even though they don’t take them.”

    Brad’s mind was working overtime as he let the remaining chickens out into the field and began to search for the entry point. He found it almost at once. A narrow funnel had been scooped out under the wire in the right-hand corner, reminiscent of a POW break-out in reverse.

    “I thought I’d buried the wire deeper than that,” he mumbled to himself, as he studied the size and shape of the funnel that had breached his defence's.

    After concluding that it must have been a fox, Brad began collecting the eggs from the boxes noting fewer than normal had been laid and, guessing that the night’s disturbance was the reason, made his way back to the cottage.

 

    He swung open the door and entered the kitchen, “bloody fox got one of the hens last night Kate.” Brad was about to expand on the situation but was stopped by the aroma and sound of breakfast sizzling in the pan.

    Brad and Kate had retired to their cottage two years previously and began living the life of their dreams. They had moved away from the hustle and bustle of town life buying the charming two-bedroom cottage which was sited in one and a half acres.

    A small area had been laid to garden the remainder consisting of, a large field, where the chickens roamed freely, a small, wooded area which, Brad knew, contained a badger sett and a pond with resident wild water birds. As well as the chicken's Brad and Kate kept two cats and a dog. The cats had moved with them from the townhouse but the dog, Butch, had only been acquired after they retired.

Brad had always insisted that a dog, like children, needed constant attention and Butch was now “one pampered pooch.”

    Brad sat down at the table and Kate brought over his breakfast. He knew that it wasn’t particularly healthy, but Brad loved his “full English.” They were few and far between when he was working but now he had plenty of time and as he looked at the plate containing, eggs, sausage, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes and fried bread the morning’s disappointment faded away.

    “You will just have to make it stronger darling,” Kate suggested as she handed Brad a steaming cup of tea. “I’m sure you will find a way of keeping the foxes out,” she added supportively.

    Brad had almost finished his breakfast when he felt his knee being nudged. He looked down to see Butch staring up at him waiting patiently for a morsel of sausage or bacon. “You don’t deserve this,” Brad spoke begrudgingly as he slipped him his last piece of sausage, “you're supposed to be a guard dog letting me know of any disturbances.” Butch gave his master a quizzical look as Kate spoke in his defence.

    “If you hadn’t been snoring so loudly you may well have heard him, he did bark in the night, but I did not wake you up because you get so grumpy. I guessed it was some creature or another and didn’t think it that important, so blame me if you have to.”

    Brad gave Butch a pat on the head, “come on mate we have work to do, sorry I doubted you.”

After loading his wheelbarrow with some tools, wood and a roll of wire Brad, with Butch in tow, made his way to the chicken enclosure. Some two hours later he sat down and mopped his brow.

“ Well, Butch, me old mate let’s see if the buggers can get through that!” Brad felt rather pleased with himself as he made his way back to the cottage.

“Must be time for lunch soon,” he patted Butch on the head as he spoke, “don’t know about you but I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

    The following morning Brad made his way to the chicken enclosure expecting to find everything in order. He swore in disbelief as he again found scattered feathers and, on a quick count, found that another chicken was missing. On this occasion, however, the point of entry was not difficult to find. He had made sure that the base of the perimeter fence was buried deep but forgot about the wooden entrance gate. The thief had literally walked through, well tunnelled under, the front door.

    Brad was furious, the fox, assuming it was a fox, was making him look silly and he wasn’t going to stand for that.

That evening Brad went down to the pub, it wasn’t so much the beer he needed as the advice he knew he could get from the locals. It was not a place he visited often but he had made some good friends there even though they referred to Brad as “The Townie.”

    It was still early as Brad entered the “Dog and Partridge” but he knew that Tom would be there. Tom was always there, early or late, Monday to Sunday, “I have nothing to go home for,” he would say.

Since the death of his wife, Tom had made the Dog and Partridge, his extended home and spent most of the pub’s opening hours sitting at the bar. The landlord was quite happy that Tom spent a lot of time there as he never drank to excess and merely socialised, drinking little but talking a lot.

    Brad got on well with Tom and knew he would help in a crisis, and this was getting into crisis proportions.            

“Evening Brad,” Tom looked up as he entered. “Haven’t seen you for days, would you like a pint?”

“No let me buy you one,” Brad replied, “need a bit of advice, got a small problem.”

“Well I’m all for helping out when I can,” Tom got up from his seat at the bar, “fire away Brad.”

Brad felt a bit awkward as he started to explain the problem he had with something killing his chickens. 

“I think it’s a fox but can’t be sure, I’ve been told that foxes always kill more than they eat. What’s more,” Brad continued, “how do I stop the buggers getting in?”

Tom laughed as he replied. “Stopping them is easy Brad, you just bloody shoot them, locating em, well that requires a bit of patience.” 

Tom then began explaining to Brad how he would need to lay in wait for whatever was pilfering his poultry.

“You will need to make sure you are down-wind, do you know from which direction the bleeder comes?”

“Not sure,” Brad replied, “but it’s probably from the wooded area.”

“OK,” Tom was getting excited, “Why don’t I come over tomorrow night and give you a hand, don’t worry about the gun I’ll bring that, just make sure you have a decent torch, wouldn’t want to shoot a poacher now would we.”

Brad laughed, “Thanks Tom see you tomorrow night.” He turned to leave but had a sudden thought, “Tell you what, why don’t you come over earlier and have a bite to eat before we tackle the situation.”

“Now that sounds like a good idea,” Tom had a broad grin on his face, “make sure you tell your misses though.”

    It was about 6pm when Tom walked up the neat path leading to Brad’s cottage. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and Brad stood there smiling.

“Saw you coming mate,” Brad ushered Tom inside where the smell of roast chicken greeted his arrival

 “Not one of yours is it?” Tom had a concerned look on his face.

“No Tom, we couldn’t do that, all our birds are extended family, you can tuck in assured that it is one we bought from the supermarket.”

Tom laughed as he walked into the kitchen where the table had been laid ready.

“Evening Tom,” Kate greeted him as he came in, “would you like a drink with your dinner?” 

    Tom asked for a small glass of wine as he sat down opposite Brad. Kate served the meal and they chatted merrily as the food was consumed with relish. When they had finished Tom thanked Kate making her blush as he complimented her on an excellent dinner,

    “Oh get away,” Kate felt embarrassed as she started to clear the table, “you know you are always welcome, besides you have work to do don’t you.”

    Brad and Tom made their way to the chicken enclosure where, after assessing the wind’s direction, made themselves comfortable behind a clump of bushes some fifty yards from the edge of the wood. It was September and the light was beginning to fade, it was getting a mite chilly too but they had made provision for this by way of overcoats. Brad had also slipped a hip flask, full of whisky, into his pocket. Tom had brought his shotgun, as promised, and Brad had sought out the most powerful torch he could lay his hands on. He had also brought some night vision binoculars and they were ready, it would seem, to tackle the unknown night visitor. 

    The wood was now barely visible as Brad, thinking he saw some movement, grabbed the binoculars and peered through the lenses. He was not mistaken; a shadowy form moved cautiously from the trees its eyes being lit, briefly, by a shaft of moonlight that had escaped via a chink in the clouds.

Brad nudged Tom and handed him the binoculars pointing towards the woods as he did so. Tom looked briefly then gave Brad the thumbs up handing him the gun.

It had been agreed that Brad would be the one to pull the trigger; after all, they were his chickens. He took the gun from Tom handing him the torch in return, both, then waited with bated breath.  

    Tom was holding the binoculars to his eyes in one hand whilst holding the torch in the other knowing that the intruder would have to pass within about thirty feet of where they lay hidden, both were ready to spring into action. 

    At first, the intruder stood there nervously, turning its head from side to side.

Suddenly it was on the move treading carefully en route to the chicken coup. Brad stiffened as the creature reached the point closest to where they lay hidden. A beam of light enveloped the chicken thief, sure enough, there it was, a beautiful fox.

    It looked back in the direction where Brad was hiding, showing its large gleaming eyes. It just stood there staring at Brad who had the gun ready to fire. Brad froze, the eyes of the fox seeming to pull him into a vortex of doubt. 

Did he really want to kill this beautiful creature? It was only trying to live. 

Did he have the right to decide who would live or die? What if there were cubs in the Den.

Was there someone out there ready to kill him?  He had eaten chicken that evening too. 

His head was spinning as the eyes of the fox became galaxies in the universe of despair that now enveloped his conscience. “Stop it,” he shouted, as he threw down the gun clasping his hands to his head, “stop it.” 

   Suddenly, Brad was aware of someone shaking him by the shoulders. “Are you OK mate?” He looked round to see Tom staring at him. “It wasn’t my fault,” Tom sounded frustrated, “the bloody torch didn’t come on, must be a dodgy connection, never mind we will get the bugger next time.” 

    Brad stared out to where the fox had stood. Darkness now enveloped the area. Further out beyond the darkness a shadow loped back to the woods, stood on two legs, then disappeared in a flash of light. 

    Tom pulled Brad to his feet, “let’s go for a pint,” he said wearily, “I’m cold and thirsty.” 

    As they made their way to the Dog And Partridge, Brad knew, somehow, that his life had changed forever.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate