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The world full of coincidences

All is not well in the Hen House

Sunday mornings are not usually especially exciting here deep in the countryside of the Lot et Garonne but today we saw a little action.

I had a leisurely start but with the intention of inserting the angle iron into the stone wall to hold the terracotta pots for the chimney.

Pouring my second cup of coffee I walked outside into the warm November sun and surveyed the countryside in front of me and enjoying the last of the Autumn colour in the lingering leaves.

All of a sudden a commotion broke the silence. On the hillside opposite that is Mr Bertrand, my neighbours property, I could see vigorous and urgent waving of arms and the usually sedate Frenchman running around in circles.

Pousse his little terrier dog who is normally glued to his side watched from a safe distance but barked as if to encourage his master.

This energetic behaviour continued for several minutes and  I could see his white hens fly up into the cherry tree on the edge of the field.

At this point I thought I ought to offer my services and assist in resolving whatever problem ensued.

As I walked up the chalky track into his large garden I couldn't see Mr Bertrand but I couldn't fail to spot the chicken carcasses strewn on the grass with hundreds and hundreds of feathers on the grass and twirling gently in the springlike breeze.

I walked around toward the front. As I did I spotted a small dog in the field and assumed this was Pousse but just as I had made this assumption, movement in my peripheral vision accompanied by a loud bang from the double barrelled shotgun Danielle was carrying made me realise this dog was in fact the perpetrator of a wicked rural crime.

The dog had just slaughtered many of Mr Bertrand's chickens and he was hell bent on stopping the culprit. After a brief chat we both followed the trail of the dog toward the woods where it had sought sanctuary but to no avail.

We chatted for several minutes and Danielle explained that he had just returned from Monflanquin to be met with the horror a savagery of a blood thirsty dog running amok amongst his flock.

He assumed the dog, which looked like a Spaniel had become detached from his master whilst out hunting.

A couple of minutes later we both saw the dog disappearing over the hill to safety.

I returned to my work but heard several shots during the afternoon and Mr B apparently running around his barn. I have no idea if it has lived to raid again or if the pincer movement ensnared him but it gave us a little drama for sure.

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