Ereiam_jh
Well-Known Member
Noting the comparisions between drag and 'proper' hunting on this site, I thought I'd share some recent experiences.
I have to say, and I think you'll agree that my experiments with drag deer flushing yielded a reasonably interesting bit of sport.
I was obviously going to have to be a little creative my own particular 'peverted' pasttime being walking round the woods, flushing out deer with my dogs and cruelly refusing to do the honourable thing and give them a merciful dose of lead in the head.
Mimicing my activity wasn't going to be possible with a sock soaked in deer's pee, nor a dead stag dragged through a wood. Neither of these items are at all prone to beinbg flushed.
After a while my thoughts turned to my grandmother's old rocking horse, gathering dust in the attic. Could my dogs somehow be fooled into thinking this was a flushed out deer?
After a few hours fiendish inventiveness I had found a solution to the problem involving a pair of deer antlers from the Great Hall, a fifty foot length of bungy cord from the local adventure centre and my alarm clock.
I rigged everything up the previous night and attended the woods early the following morning. For all they knew for just another day's deer persecution.
6:55 - five minutes to zero hour, I'm mooching around with my dogs 'searching' for deer.
6:57 I'm approaching the launch site when, out of the morning mist emerges the Master of the Tivvy Stag accompanied by about fifteen mounted followers and a full pack of hounds.
'Morning Bradshaw! Out doing a little illegal flushing eh?. We thought you might like a little assistance.' He says with a broad wink.
I was of course absolutely horrified, my carefully built up reputation as a blood thirsty unrepentant deer flusher was at risk. I had no wish whatsoever for the hunting fraternity to know about my little rocking horse stunt.
I tried to act casual and hoped my voice would cover the fait tick tock from the undergrowth. I was also only too concious of the quivering, taut bungy line stretched between an oak tree and the Rocking Horse which I had carefully concealed in the woods.
'Oh, there's no deer round here Mr L' I replied, 'Best to try another copse I should think.'
However the good Mr L seemed intent to stay band discuss some recent hunting letters from the local press.
Time was running out.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick, CLICK, TWANG.
All heads where turned as the rocking horse was lauched high into the air. I have to say the antlers tied to it's head appeared to be enhancing it's aeronautical properties.
It sailed gracefully over the valley straight as a ... well as a freshly flushed deer.
Even the horse's jaws dropped.
It's maiden flight ended with a faint thud and a splintering sound as it hit the opposite side of the valley. I turned red faced to face the master.
He was by this time however long gone, galloping through the woods with his pack of hounds and his hunt followers wooping manically as they pursued my late grandmother's childhood toy.
A few minutes later a single shot rang out and I knew poor dobbin had been put out of his misery.
A week or two later, bringing round the traditional haunch cut from the kill (a fine grain, if a little tough), the master thanked me profusely for a fine bit of sport.
All's well that ends well, and the antlers are back in the Great Hall. However I think I'll probably stick to 'proper' hunting in the future.
I have to say, and I think you'll agree that my experiments with drag deer flushing yielded a reasonably interesting bit of sport.
I was obviously going to have to be a little creative my own particular 'peverted' pasttime being walking round the woods, flushing out deer with my dogs and cruelly refusing to do the honourable thing and give them a merciful dose of lead in the head.
Mimicing my activity wasn't going to be possible with a sock soaked in deer's pee, nor a dead stag dragged through a wood. Neither of these items are at all prone to beinbg flushed.
After a while my thoughts turned to my grandmother's old rocking horse, gathering dust in the attic. Could my dogs somehow be fooled into thinking this was a flushed out deer?
After a few hours fiendish inventiveness I had found a solution to the problem involving a pair of deer antlers from the Great Hall, a fifty foot length of bungy cord from the local adventure centre and my alarm clock.
I rigged everything up the previous night and attended the woods early the following morning. For all they knew for just another day's deer persecution.
6:55 - five minutes to zero hour, I'm mooching around with my dogs 'searching' for deer.
6:57 I'm approaching the launch site when, out of the morning mist emerges the Master of the Tivvy Stag accompanied by about fifteen mounted followers and a full pack of hounds.
'Morning Bradshaw! Out doing a little illegal flushing eh?. We thought you might like a little assistance.' He says with a broad wink.
I was of course absolutely horrified, my carefully built up reputation as a blood thirsty unrepentant deer flusher was at risk. I had no wish whatsoever for the hunting fraternity to know about my little rocking horse stunt.
I tried to act casual and hoped my voice would cover the fait tick tock from the undergrowth. I was also only too concious of the quivering, taut bungy line stretched between an oak tree and the Rocking Horse which I had carefully concealed in the woods.
'Oh, there's no deer round here Mr L' I replied, 'Best to try another copse I should think.'
However the good Mr L seemed intent to stay band discuss some recent hunting letters from the local press.
Time was running out.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick, CLICK, TWANG.
All heads where turned as the rocking horse was lauched high into the air. I have to say the antlers tied to it's head appeared to be enhancing it's aeronautical properties.
It sailed gracefully over the valley straight as a ... well as a freshly flushed deer.
Even the horse's jaws dropped.
It's maiden flight ended with a faint thud and a splintering sound as it hit the opposite side of the valley. I turned red faced to face the master.
He was by this time however long gone, galloping through the woods with his pack of hounds and his hunt followers wooping manically as they pursued my late grandmother's childhood toy.
A few minutes later a single shot rang out and I knew poor dobbin had been put out of his misery.
A week or two later, bringing round the traditional haunch cut from the kill (a fine grain, if a little tough), the master thanked me profusely for a fine bit of sport.
All's well that ends well, and the antlers are back in the Great Hall. However I think I'll probably stick to 'proper' hunting in the future.
