It's been quite a week for animals in trouble but we've been right there, like Thunderbirds Are Go, to save the day. It began with Bertie Boosh's derring do up the tree - up being the operative word as it was the only way he went. Down did not feature willingly.
But, ta-da, Fif and Del were on hand with the rescue blanket, weaving left, right, up, down, following his every direction along the branches (note the chickens who couldn't give a monkeys about the unfolding drama). Fortunately the blanket was not put to use - Fireman Fif climbed the ladder and coaxed one very relieved Bertie into her arms.......
Yesterday was Angela's 40th birthday, which will be news to all those people she didn't tell, so we drove up to Carnforth to celebrate with the Hucks. Off to the local hostelry for a very palatable birthday supper where we met a bedraggled persian puss with runny eyes and a penchant for a pint. It took all my powers of persuasion to prevent Fireman Fif from bundling Persian Puss into the car and home to Cheshire for TLC. Mind you, I nearly did the same with the unkempt Shetland ponies in the paddock at the back of the pub, particularly as the black one looked just like my first pony. It would be fair to say mine host wasn't big on animal welfare.
After a few Wii games of tennis, rounds of golf and a whitewash on the Wii bowling alley we set off home in Figgis. Just five miles to go when a dark, squat, solid cannonball flew out of the hedge, slamming into Figgis' wing (following swift evasive action by the Figmeister). The badger, for that was what he was, lay, still breathing but unconscious, in a pool of blood in the middle of the road. Following the letter of the law I rang the police who asked us to stay with the badger as he was causing a hazard and they'd get the highways patrol out to move him. A knight in shining armour stopped to assist we damsels in distress and stayed with us throughout the entire ordeal. Some 20 minutes later the police called back to say the highways patrol only came out to bigger animals in the middle of the road and, as I'd stupidly only hit a only hit a medium-sized badger, they'd have to send a patrol car out to assist. But then Brock came round, dragged himself on to the verge and onwards into the hedge, displaying the classic symptoms of a badger with a broken leg and a bitten tongue. We rang the police again (we're on first name terms by this time) to say the hazard had cleared but what do we do about the broken badger? At that very moment an ambulance, lights flashing, siren blaring, rushed towards us. We were impressed with the quick response until it roared on by so we got the number for the RSPCA. Two hours later, those two long, cold, damp hours that Fif, me and our knight in shining armour spent watching the hedge to make sure badger didn't drag himself off home, a lone, sleepy, RSPCA damsel arrived with a noose, a basket and a couple of torches to pull a writhing, hissing, spitting badger into the basket and off to hospital. I'll be ringing tomorrow for an update and possibly arrange a visit. Do badgers like grapes?
1 comment:
You did very well. I've seen several dead badgers on the roadside in the last few years. That's country life I suppose.
And what about those bird-brained p(h)easants you get down your way? I could've had one of them in the bag, and swiftly back home, many a time -- if I hadn't slowed down!
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