FOX: hunt gives pause for thought as death comes slowly

FOXES are now so common in some of our cities that they can be spotted in broad daylight trotting along railway lines or relaxing in quiet gardens.
Urban foxes have had little trouble adapting to much noisier, busier surroundings than those enjoyed by their rual cousins. In fact, with generous portions of rich food provided regularly by city residents, it is not surprising some urban foxes can become pests.
Foxes are superb animals and we would be much poorer without them. However, I don't think I am unique in holding that view while also supporting foxhunting - with one or two reservations.
I have never hunted myself or been a member of any clubs that do. Despite the hunt ban, I still occasionally enjoy mingling with my local hunt during its Boxing Day "meets" outside a pub, admiring the horses and hounds, marvelling at the sheer spectacle on a freezing winter's day.
Nevertheless, I was always opposed to some aspects of foxhunting, largely because of an experience I'll come to. My philosophy - naive and simplistic to many, no doubt - was that a fox should only be pursued above ground. Then it could be caught and dispatched in seconds by the hounds.
What I never liked was digging out a fox safe in its hole or baiting it to death underground with a team of terriers. Hardly fair, or sporting.
I remember once being out for a walk and coming across a knot of hunt followers on top of a hill. As we talked, the hounds were being put to work sweeping through the valley below us. One jolly, ruddy-cheeked individual - I think he said he said he was a lawyer - suddenly broke off, cupped his hands to his mouth, and began whooping like a man possessed.
The reason for this quickly became apparent. A big dog fox had been put up by the hounds from a tangle of bushes and was powering up the hill towards us. The sudden hollering turned him back and sent him across a brook running parallel to the bottom of the hill.
By now the hounds had sighted the fox themselves and were screaming with excitement, a curious sound to the uninitiated. From our vantage point on top of the hill we had a perfect view of the fox as he tore across the fields on the other side of the brook. He was heroic in his determination to escape while the hounds were magnificent in their pursuit. This happened to be a hunt on foot, without horses, so no riders careered into view to complicate the pulse-quickening scene.
By doing a large 'U' turn and snaking through a few dense hedgerows, the fox managed to shake off the hounds and leave them floundering. I for one felt like cheering as he made it to safety in a dense patch of woodland. Except he wasn't safe. Not by a long shot.
Fifteen minutes later, myself and those hunt supporters - who had seemed to 'adopt' me - arrived at the site in the woods where the fox had gone to ground. On one side, the frustrated hounds had been corralled by a whip man while the terrier men went to work.
Four terriers were sent down the hole where the fox waited, trapped. Someone said, rather too gleefully for my liking, that the hole led to a small underground stream but recent rain had swollen the stream and cut off any escape route there. Meanwhile, two men with spades tried to dig down to the fox from above.
The drama dragged on and on. Each terrier returned with its muzzle bloodied and torn but was sent back down again regardless. Eventually, the muffled barks and shrieks of pain underground began to peter out. For me at least, the thrill of the chase had long since evaporated but I still could not drag myself away. If anything, the others were even keener to witness the inevitable outcome. With a sense of growing unease, I noticed some children among them.
Then nothing. No more subterranean barks. All the terriers exhausted but unable to drag out the fox. The huntsmen and their followers grew almost silent. At last the two men digging reached the fox. One grabbed its tail and yanked it out. It was dead all right. Drowned. Rather than face any more torment from the terriers it had pushed itself too far into the water so it could no longer breathe. The bedraggled corpse was tossed to the hounds who broke it up in moments. I walked away in a daze, feeling wretched.

DAVID KAVANAGH

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