The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2691 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I’d just got home with the girls and switched on the television to see if I could catch the last of the TdF. I did and to my amazement watched Chris Froome destroy the opposition as Team Sky managed to get first and second, with the diminutive Quintana getting third. I stood there with my mouth wide open, his attack was devastating and it took his lead in the yellow jersey from seconds to minutes. If he doesn’t crash or have a bad day, he might well have won his second TdF.

Of course there’s talk about him using substances though he claims to be clean and Dave Brailsford backs him. I don’t think Sir Dave would countenance drugs and to be honest if Sky caught even a whiff of an enhancing substance, they’d pull the plug double quick. But there’s another eleven stages to go yet, so it isn’t all cut and dried and as they say, cycling is a funny old sport.

The schools break up for the summer holidays in a couple or three day’s time. I shall only work the basic minimum then as I insisted when agreeing to act as professor. Unfortunately, I can’t just slope off for the whole holidays because we still have post grad students doing research, especially if that involves living creatures, even things like insects. They’ll probably keep an eye on the dormice from time to time but I have to keep an eye on them because some of our students are total imbeciles. I shall take two complete weeks off but the rest of the time, I’ll be stealing time where I can.

I’ve related how brilliant one or two of our students have been, we’ve also had the most unhelpful and cheating bar stewards whose letters of expulsion I have enjoyed signing.

The girls had gone to change and get their biccie and drink when they found me watching the telly. “Wassamarrer, Mummy, you look like you seen a ghost?”

“Oh hello, darling, no not a ghost but an emphatic win which destroyed the opposition.”

“Oh, who was that?”

“Chris Froome, he won the stage and added to his lead.”

“Is it on later?”

“Highlights are.”

“Oh good, I’ll watch that then.” Off course we’d be eating dinner when the highlights were on, so I got Trish to set the video to record it—well, no point in taking chances, it is the TdF.

“Whit aboot thae nationalists makin’ thae government postpone thae foxhuntin’ bill, thing?”

“I don’t know, the government and the Countryside Alliance people are as tricky as the foxes they want to be able to slaughter with dogs again.”

“He says, that is our namesake, says the foxes will still be shot not killed by dogs.” Stella reported what had been said on the news.

“Have you been on a hunt?”

“Um...” she blushed and it was obvious she had.

“You know how chaotic it can be with people, horses and dogs all over the place. Who is going to guarantee the dogs don’t get the fox first? No one can if they large packs of dim-witted canines, controlled by even more stupid humans riding on the backs of animals which are nearly as stupid as their riders.”

“I get a strong impression you don’t like foxhunting,” she said almost sarcastically, “You’ve obviously never seen the mess a fox causes in a hen house.”

“Actually, I have. Let’s get a bit of actual facts here. Foxes don’t enjoy killing, it’s what they do and frightened in a manmade environment, they probably snap at anything that makes a noise, because the chickens will.

“Foxes don’t make moral judgements, only humans can do that, and chasing an animal with dogs three or four times the size, while following on horseback is hardly fair or sport. It’s cruelty.”

“How d’you know the fox doesn’t like it?”

“The fox is running for its life—enjoy it, that’s like saying we enjoyed being tormented by the Russian mafia, yeah it gave us an adrenalin buzz. Those dogs aren’t going to lick it to death, they’re looking to kill it.”

“It’s not very efficient anyway, most just go for the ride rather than the kill.”

“If you believe that, Stella, I’ve got a couple of bridges to sell...”

“Huh,” she said storming off in a huff.

“I think Auntie Stella is a bit upset, Mummy.”

“Danielle, she just lost an argument because she was using pure bilge as her case. Fox hunting is indefensible.”

“What about all the chickens an’ things they kill?”

“Free range chickens are always at risk when they’re roaming but if they get into a hen house, it’s because the person responsible for it hasn’t made it fox proof. It’s like having captive dormice hibernating in an environment that isn’t rat proof, and rat proofing is far harder than fox proofing.”

“Why are you so anti hunting, Mummy.”

“Have you ever seen a fox torn apart by a pack of dogs?”

“Um—no.”

“It is vile, it screams before they disembowel it and it dies from shock, and those stupid sadistic bastards in their fancy dress, are sat with their big fat arses on horseback laughing. It’s sick.”

“Oh,” Danielle looked embarrassed.

“Nature is red in tooth and claw. It takes no prisoners. The dogs aren’t at fault, they are stupid mutts, it’s the so called humans on horseback who are to blame and I believe some of them get a sexual thrill from the ride and the kill.”

“That’s sick, Mummy.”

“Absolutely, which is what I’ve been saying all along.”

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

“I was a hunt saboteur when I was a student.”

“What’s that?”

“We tried to sabotage the hunt. When they decide where they’re going to ride, they block up any holes the fox can use to escape, they block badger setts, rabbit warrens and anything else, including fox earths. They aren’t too good at clearing the blockages and badgers and rabbits can die as they can’t get out. If the fox does go to ground, they dig it out or send terriers down after it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“The object isn’t about fairness, it’s about killing—in their eyes, pests.”

“Can’t they just shoot them?”

“They do, but it doesn’t have the same buzz for the arseholes on horseback thundering over farmland and through gardens. They frequently kill lambs and small dogs or cats.”

“But they’re not foxes,” observed Danni.

“No, but the dogs are excited and ready to kill anything once in that state. It’s ancient behaviour any pack of dogs is far more dangerous than a single animal under control. You can’t control a pack despite one of the idiots being called Master of Foxhounds. Most of them couldn’t master pissing in a bucket.”

Danni roared with laughter. The gong banged and she went off to wash her hands before eating.

“Ye’ll hae tae mak’ it up wi’ Stella, ye ken.”

“I know. I knew she’d ridden to hounds, I didn’t expect her to defend it.”

“Ye were quite aggressive.”

“Was I? I still see that poor fox being killed—it’s indefensible, so I’m not going to apologise to her.”

“I didnae say ye had tae apologise, jest mak’ it up wi’ her.”

“I’ll see—things are a bit raw still.”

“Aye, I ken.”