Urban Coutryman

I hear them long before I see them, their sporadic calls scythe through the gusting southerly wind and send me spinning for cover against a solitary gorse bush. A redshank shrills in alarm at my sudden movement and wisps hurriedly away. “Stay still. Good lad.” I snap, pulling Kenzie close into my side, his body stiff with tension, eyes fixed in the direction of the unseen skein. It’s beyond sunset, almost black-out save for a faint afterglow in the west where skeletal oak trees guard the silver ribbon of meandering burn as it spills into the estuary. “If I can see them they’ll be in range” I tell myself. Another clamouring outburst. Much closer, yet still invisible and now over the main river to my right. I grab the goose call and despite stiff cold hands mange to spit out a couple of deceiving notes, well timed it seems as a single bird answers back.

And then briefly I see them, vague yet recognisable forms on stiff wings set like sails which send them tacking across wind to my left. A bunch of a dozen or so Pinkfeet seeking a safe haven to roost within the heart of the estuary. Darkness engulfs them once more and I track their direction of travel from intermittent calls, my eyes continuously search for their movement, my ears strain for every ounce of sound hurled on the wind.

I call again, they turn. Approaching low, they are upon us in a heartbeat, the great birds materialise from the gloaming as imperceptible smudges which quickly evolve into discernible crisp silhouette shapes. Kenzie whines, unable to contain his excitement.

Everything happens at once. My right hand grips the gun and forefinger curls across the trigger, my left hand slides along the fore-end and I raise to one knee as the great gun is heaved skywards. The long barrels gain momentum and I don’t even notice the weight of the big 10 gauge, or indeed anything else as every part of my conscious is immersed in the moment. My thumb instinctively finds the safety catch and pushes forward. The butt sinks into my shoulder, my cheek finds the stock. Now…! The word screams through my head.

The crack of gun shot splits the sky. Panic ensues. The geese scramble for safety and are caught like confetti in the wind, swift deep strokes of great powerful wings push them skywards. One bird folds within itself and falls from the skein. They quickly re-compose with an onslaught of protest cries. I stretch for a second shot, squeeze the trigger and a second bird peels away into the flooding tide.

Kenzie needs no instruction, appearing proudly with the first goose before I’ve even gathered my thoughts. “Give. Good boy.” I gently take the bird from him, pat his back before throwing my hand in the general direction of the other. “Get on.” I watch progress through glimmering silver refractions created by his dashing, splashing, cavorting. But seconds pass, all is quiet and I start to wonder. “Here, come on Kenzie”. At last he returns, bird in mouth with an obtuse broken wing covering his eyes. ”Good boy, good lad, that was a tricky retrieve”. His entire body shakes in gleeful confirmation.

We celebrate together under torch light, inspecting each bird in turn and admiring the wonderful tones of chocolate, chestnut, taupe and walnut through the head and neck; running into a smoky palette of ash, flint, silver and pewter across the body, back and wings. And of course their wonderful bubble gum pink beak and feet! How can one who takes a life find such beauty in a bunch of now lifeless bones, flesh and feathers?

Safely stowing the gun my attention turns to Kenzie, the old dogs wracked with arthritis and I constantly worry about him. He’s limping and walking slowly, as if his zest and vigour have been caught by the river and washed away downstream. I curse myself for expecting too much, console myself that I’ve given him a chance to enjoy one last flight; to feel the rush of the wind, smell the sea air, listen to the cry of wild birds and to watch the day die – yet feel alive.

We amble home together along the tides edge on this fine October night, the lucid calls of flighting wigeon keep us company under a canopy of shimmering stars.