Well hung

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Alexander Pope

A friend gave us a brace of pheasants. They need to be drawn and plucked. We've yet to be initiated into this particular way of the country. We don't want to waste them... we're just inept "London overspill". I'm not sentimental about animals being killed (humanely) for meat... but it is quite sad to this pair of dead pheasants hanging in all their glorious plumage.