There is a psycho pheasant on the loose.
I have been aware of him for some time. He sits upon the gatepost and waits. He waits for the car to reach him. He then chases the car. When he can’t keep up on foot, he flies behind, at low level, so that when you glance in your rear view mirror all you can see is this stalker pheasant, wings outstretched, filling your field of vision. It’s disturbing.
What is even more disturbing is that when you get out of the car he goes for your legs.
I worry for his future. The shooting season is here, so he’s fair game. In fact, recently retired Warden came to ask my husband to shoot it, as he was so fed up with it chasing him around the estate yard. (My husband declined – he only has an air rifle, after all). I shall miss Pyscho Pheasant if he does get blown to bits. The sight of our property secretary running across the car park, making noises not unlike those of Pyscho Pheasant himself, as he fixes her with his beady eye and darts his beak at her shins, is one of life’s rare pleasures.