The fugitive pheasant

This afternoon we saw a pheasant in our back yard.

It was skulking about, under the fir tree, where the shade-cloth covered fence makes a corner, by the road.

Every now and again, it would bend its neck and peck in the ground for an insect. Then it would stand stock-still, its head and body rigid, for minutes at a time.

Then it moved again, craning its neck forward in little thrusting movements. It was a large, majestic bird, with coppery feathers and a tail that stuck out straight behind it. A cream beak and scarlet eyes were set in an iridescent green head and at the neck it wore a white collar.

The bird continued to strut nervously along the fence that ran down to the river, between our lawn and the wild grey-brown undergrowth of our neighbour’s unkept property.

We left our new friend in the yard and went for an afternoon constitutional. That’s when we discovered the reason for its furtive presence.

A hunter and his dog were across the road in the tall, dry, scrappy weeds of a winter paddock.

The dog was small and brown and it dashed about excitedly, hither and thither, its neck bell ringing loudly. The young hunter’s shotgun was propped skyward on his right shoulder.

In the distance, we heard the crack of a rifle and the baying of hounds.

Along the Lot, hunters are given access to tracts of wild vegetation sheltering game such as deer and pheasant. 

When we got back from our walk, an hour and a half later, the pheasant was still pacing cautiously in the garden.

Under the fir tree by the log pile, it froze again, behind the green shade-cloth of the fence, out of sight of the hunter and his dog.