The village pub

Sitting in the pub with a dog curled around my legs, suddenly the air is filled with a pungent smell, he's farted again (the dog not me). 

It's a rural scene. The small village surrounded by fields the hedgerows are full of game and wildlife. Suddenly the door opens and the men who shoot and their dogs who retrieve come in from a mornings work. But it's hard for a suburban type like me to equate work with killing.
The fields and the 'natural order' are disturbed by mankind's thirst for accountability. The fox is accountable for so many geese the geese are accountable for a nice Christmas meal and there can only be one winner in the man-made abacus of priorities. The shooting of birds is another matter. They too find their way to the table and the taste of wild bird can only be found in the wild. But our taste buds, which in this case crave a flavour, not food to survive, have once again set men in the mould of being the brute. The pheasant, partridges and quails are all game to these chaps as they leave their guns secure in the hatchback and stand, heartily fresh from their early start in the cold air, now snug in the pub laughing at the events of the morning.
Also in the hatchback are the blooded bodies of the birds. An hour or so ago alert to the sight of a mouse as they skimmed the trees oblivious to the power of a high powered shotgun. The bird didn't even hear the bang, the shot had found its mark with unerring accuracy, tearing the beautiful symmetry of bone and feathers, an evolutionary marvel which defines us, enabling the bird able to fly whilst we unerringly are tied to the ground the less graceful species we are.
The dog at my feet sniggers in its sleep, it too is out chasing it's pray but it's only the neighbours cat and only in its dreams, so no harm done.
Another pint please !!