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Autumn Rabbit Hunting and a Mountain Biker’s Close Call
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So there I was, tiptoeing along the hedgerow, sneaking through the dawn mist like a right ninja on a mission. My destination? The rabbit warren, naturally—trying to bag a plump coney for the pot.
A flock of redwings appeared, flitting about in and out of the blackthorn. They probably just arrived from Iceland, the Faroes, or Scandinavia seeking refuge from the harsher winters up north. With each step I took, the rear guard shot out ahead, landing in front of their mates, just like racing cyclists taking turns to lead the peloton—only with less lycra and more chirping. I had no clue this was a bad omen. Alfie, my Labrador, started to go a bit bonkers, zigzagging like a pinball every time those birds flapped up from the hedge.
With the breeze tickling my face, I crouched down low for the last few yards while Alfie crept along behind me. I knelt down in the wet grass and scanned the bank ahead. There they were—two tasty-size rabbits happily munching away, blissfully unaware of our presence. One was at about 45 metres, the other a mere 30. I tapped Alfie’s shoulder, and he flopped down like a good lad. The closer rabbit? As good as dead, I thought. Just as I got the crosshairs perfectly lined up on its noggin, the little bugger reared up, did a quick 180, and shot off like it had just spotted a hawk. I yanked my eye from the scope and saw the other little bunnies’ tails bobbing into the briars like they were off to a rave. Well, that was that, then!
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement on my left—like a bloody rocket! A mountain biker zipped past, sending everything with a heartbeat scurrying for cover. The tires squelched through the mud with a shwoop, splattering muck in every direction. Water hissed and splashed up from puddles, and the faint sound of the chain clicking added a mechanical symphony to the chaos. I sat there fuming. Honestly, this is the second time in six months I’ve nearly shot someone on this field! I began to ponder whether it was time to find a new spot, even though the signs plastered everywhere read “Private Property. Keep Out! Vermin Control in Operation.”
I made the executive decision to let Alfie off his lead and give him the freedom to thrash about in the briars like a furry tornado. No harm done now.
We wandered off to a nearby wood, a rabbit metropolis teeming with burrows—fingers crossed I’d have better luck there. It was still early doors.
As we strolled around its edge, keeping the breeze on my face, Alfie picked up scent at a few holes bordering the farm fields. He marked each ‘live’ hole with a raised paw and followed reluctantly when I called him off each one, looking back with all the disappointment of a child denied ice cream. Poor chap hasn’t quite grasped that I can’t shoot into the rabbit’s underground hidey-holes and probably wishes his master had a slightly more glamorous gig—like a ferreter instead of an airgun hunter.
On the sheltered side of the wood, I clipped Alfie back onto his lead, and we slinked into the trees, taking it slow and steady with every step. Now, I could tell that today, Alfie wasn’t exactly in the mood for sneaky stalking; I found myself tugging at the slip to hold him back. Fortunately, Labradors are surprisingly gentle on the lead, and the slightest tug brings him to a halt. I kept the slip wedged between my rifle stock and left hand, ready to drop it quick if a shot came up.
With a chilly breeze swirling around us, Alfie’s nose was in overdrive. His head was darting about as if it were a game of whack-a-mole, sniffing out every scent. Rabbit, squirrel, rat… they all call this place home. I could tell by his reactions which quarry he was after, giving me a welcome advantage in how to proceed. He paused, one paw lifted like he was about to take a bow, head tilting this way and that. Rabbit!
Lo and behold, about 80 metres ahead, I caught sight of a pair of white tails bobbing about, giving away the movement of a few rabbits foraging. Unfortunately, between us and potential dinner was a minefield of puddles and mud that looked ready to betray us at the slightest move. It was too long a stalk with the dog. One of us would undoubtedly squelch, squish, or slosh in this wet drama. I thought it wise to hold my horses for a moment—after all, those cheeky bunnies might decide to waltz a tad closer. Instead, I shuffled forward just enough to clear the edge of the wood and slip into a nice spot to get into cover beneath an ivy curtain and the leafy canopy of a mid-growth beech tree.
Alfie’s whole demeanour changes in an instant. He freezes, stiff as a board, staring between the trees. His head stretches out, neck craning forward, and his tail shoots up like an aerial. Squirrel alert! The trembling starts, and I know it’s heading our way—if it were going in the opposite direction, he’d be flat on the ground, tail wagging, giving me those puppy-dog eyes, begging me to chase after it.
I drop to one knee, bring the gun up to my shoulder, and give Alfie a gentle tap on the flank so he sits beside me. I lock in on his line of sight—like following a laser pointer—and sure enough, the grey little bugger makes an appearance, hopping up onto a tall trunk. But it’s too far. It leaps off and starts legging it… 50 metres… 40… 35… this is dead-on zero range for my .177 HW97K air rifle. My eye’s already on the scope, safety off, and I whisper Stay to Alfie. One loud tongue click, and the squirrel freezes. Another click, and it sits up, just in time to catch the pellet with its forehead. I keep watching through the scope: dead as a dodo.
I lower my gun and, unleashing Alfie, send him in to retrieve. He charges in eagerly, then suddenly slams on the brakes about a foot from the unfortunate critter. Once bitten, twice shy, perhaps? He takes a slow circle around the kill, then snatches it up and lopes back. A few feet from me, he stops, squirrel hanging from his mouth, with that familiar Let’s play! gleam in his eye. Even after seven years, we’re still at this silly game. Dead! I say, and with a bit of a huff, he drops the squirrel at my boots, earning himself a good pat for his trouble. He loves that.
I tucked the squirrel’s carcass into some bushes, leaving it as a snack for the first fox or raptor that fancies a nibble. May the best predator win!
Now, it’s a rabbit I’m after. Alfie’s patience is wearing thin, and trust me, mine’s not much better. I’d settle for just one rabbit, enough to make the whole trip worthwhile. You know the feeling, don’t you? Just one! A nice, fat bunny to reassure myself that I’ve still got what it takes. The kind you can proudly dangle by its back legs when you walk through the door, waiting for the inevitable So, how did you do? from the wife.
A woodpigeon copped it to the following pellet, but then, finally, the moment I’d been hoping for arrived. Alfie, sharp as ever, was on to something. The rabbit nipped out of a burrow for a snack along the woodland edge, downwind of us both. But Alfie had clocked her, sitting there like the canine equivalent of Sherlock Holmes, one paw lifted as if waiting for applause. I turned, clocked her too, and Pop!—job done, quick and clean. My rabbit? Hardly—ours. After all, we were in this together today, weren’t we?
