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WEEKEND TELEGRAPH - 23.2.03
You will have read that Mr Michael is set on destroying Staghunting, because
he has 'incontrovertible evidence' as to its cruelty. The strange thing
is that he has so far steadfastly refused to publish this evidence
and its source. Could it be that this evidence does not exist and what
we are looking at is the good old - "I have made up my mind, please
do not confuse me with facts?" I believe this to be an example
of 'dialectical materialism.' There are only two legal methods of killing
red deer in this country. They can be shot with a rifle of approved
calibre and muzzle velocity. Or they can be hunted until they stand
at bay and then shot through the head at close range by a trained marksman.
Roe, Fallow and Sika deer are not hunted in this country. The argument
centres on which method represents the least "compromise of welfare" for
the animal. This now famous phrase was very carefully chosen by Professor
Burns's committee because the members thought that - " no method
of quantifying suffering was available." Mr Edmund Marriage is
an interesting and tenacious bloke. I have heard him described as a
'loose cannon' and 'a thorn in the side' by every organisation from
the LACS to the Countryside Alliance, via the NFU and the CLA. He makes
other people think - a thing that most people try to avoid at all costs.
He is the founder of British Wildlife Management, which seeks to promote
a statutory wildlife service - something else to think about. He has
now produced the "Red Deer Welfare Equation - simple sums and
solution." It is unfortunate that I have neither the space nor
the mathematical facility to give the equation the explanation that
it deserves For another view, I turn to D.J.B. Denny, B.VET.MED.MRCVS.
Mr Denny says that the majority of hunted deer that escape will have
fully recovered within 24 hours. Hounds for deer are bred to have an
equable temperament. A hard hound that would 'have a go'when the deer
is at bay is not desirable. Many hunted deer are found to have full
bladders after death - a frightened animal voids as quickly as possible,
but the act of hunting raises the level of endorphins (natural analgesics).
The Joint University Study found that 70% of rifle shot deer are not
blessed with instantaneous death; 20% will need a second bullet. A
shot deer will not have raised endorphin levels in the blood like a
hunted one. The endorphins will not be pumping to ease the pain. C.
5% of deer shot at are hit, but never found. All deer will have to
suffer intense pain as the result of a bullet wound. There is a shadowy
figure who appears in anti-hunting folk-lore as the definitve answer
for both fox and deer control - the "skilled-marksman-with-a-high-powered-rifle." Whilst
such people do exist, a lot of people with high powered rifles are
far from being skilled: "If ye had seen, what I have seen, ye
would not be so canty-o" "In my opinion (Denny) there can
be no hypothetical mathematical number / factor that could possibly
equate temporary tiredness with the suffering from permanent bullet
damage. Common sense shows that any slight suffering that a hunted
deer undergoes is insignificant to that of the great majority of stalked
deer. To have an equation, both sides must be equal." It is this
equation that Mr Marriage has tried to address. Denny - "There
can be no adequate factor, which will address the welfare balance of
the injuries that virtually all stalked deer sustain with that of the
hunted deer, which is only tired." I strongly recommend you to
contact Mr Marriage on 01935 816 944 and ask for a copy of the equation.
You should also contact Mr Denny on 01905 424 374 and ask for a copy
of his submission. Both should be read with an open mind. Mr Michael
has already closed his.
WEEKEND TELEGRAPH - 2.2.03
The Cheviots can be a dour dreich place in January - especially if the
wind is set in the S.East. This is a bad 'airt'. The wind comes straight
from the Urals, picking up dull grey vapour over the North Sea. This
seeps to the bone and chills both body and soul. Then the temperature
dropped, the rain turned to snow and life became a dark, dank, misery.
Then occasionally a small miracle happens, like yesterday. After a
night of biting frost, the wind fell away, leaving a clear frosty morning
with a cloudless sky. The meet was at Golden Pots - high on a Border
ridge. Hounds arrived in a series of 4x4 pickups. The hunt lorry was
sulking and the hill road was a sheet of ice. In the still, icy air,
the hills rolled away, white with frozen snow, with dark patches of
heather and rusher beds. There were about a dozen people on quads fresh
from the morning shepherding round. I wondered if any foxes would be
above ground, but a big dark fox shot out of a big rusher bed just
below the meet - away went hounds and away went the quads. I was determined
to 'gan canny' - snow is one thing, but you cannot see what's underneath
it and sure enough crossing a large patch of virgin snow, I found a
bog and sank. By the time I had extricated myself, hounds had caught
their fox and were heading out across the snow for what I knew was
a tricky bit of ground. A few years ago, I would have followed, but
at my age, I take no shame in cowardice, caution, call it what you
will - as Surtees wrote - "happy the man who hunts to please himself
and not to astonish others." So I found the old road that runs
across this bit of snow. It was a sheet of ice, but sound underneath
and I proceeded along it with a caution sharpened by the fact that
my rear brake cable had snapped. An eldritch screech announced the
departure of yet another fox and I could hear hounds running hard in
the next valley, the interestingly named 'Pudding Burn'. The quads
were on the skyline above - "ganning like stoor" (going like
smoke) but I was very happy on my track and had a pretty fair idea
where the fox was headed, so I turned down another track that brought
me down the burn side and sure enough, there were hounds marking at
some rocks several hundred feet above. There being nothing else to
do, I sat in surprising warmth of the January sun and ate my bait.
A chorus of holloas and a crash of hound voices announced the departure
of the fox. It was truly the tortoise and the hare now. The thrusters
had half a mile of rocky hillside to traverse and then half a dozen
gates to open and shut. I just had the valley road to slide down. The
radio traffic in my ear piece gave me a continuous 'sit-rep' - fox
and hounds were in the farm steading - hounds had 'lost off' - the
fox was away down the road - I was to take hounds on. There are two
steadings with the river and a bridge between them. The fox had obviously
crossed the bridge, but the packed ice carried no scent - hounds were
stuck. I began to holloa. Hounds will fly to a voice they know and
trust, but mine was a strange voice. For what felt like an hour they
ignored me, then something clicked and they came with me up the icy
road to where he had obviously turned off. They hit off the line with
a roar; just as Joseph the huntsman appeared, deus ex machina: "Ye've
not lost the old touch." He said with a broad grin. Hounds caught
their fox a mile on, in the river. As the saying goes - "Old dogs
for hard roads."
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