Sad tale of the dead pheasant

Ten days ago a neighbour knocked on our door.
I’m surprised to see him.
 
(Since lockdown folk only come if it’s urgent or it’s an Amazon or supermarket delivery.)
 
“ I hear you like pheasants “ he said.
“Yes”
“ I’ve got one for you. It flew into our window and broke its neck.  Killed instantly. Do you want it?”
 
I am horrified.
“ Well…err…no,…I have been feeding it.”
He interrupts me.
“Bloody nuisance it was. Kept squawking.”
 
M appears and the neighbour reports the saga of the pheasant to him and my reluctance to accept it.
 
“Well,” says M, ever the diplomat ” I think she feels it’s a bit like eating her pet cat.”
 
 “ Rubbish these birds were reared to be eaten.  I’ll just throw it in the dustbin.”
He marches away, affronted we have turned down a free gift.
 
This afternoon I hear a familiar clucking outside the window.  It’s a pheasant.  Is this the original pet pheasant or another?
I throw it some peanuts.
 

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