Alfie, my over-enthusiastic Labrador, had been under house arrest for a week, recovering from a minor cyst removal that, in his mind, might as well have been major surgery. To him, it was akin to being imprisoned, and he had the dramatic sighs to prove it. So, naturally, the moment I strutted downstairs in my hunting gear—looking the part, mind you—he completely lost his marbles. Tail wagging like a windscreen wiper on full speed, paws dancing about as if he was auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing.
I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt watching him go through what I can only describe as an emotional meltdown. Eyes wide, tongue lolling, practically pleading, “You’re not leaving me behind again, mate, are you?” I gave in, of course. Call me soft, but when a dog looks at you like that, it’s game over. He was coming along.
And just like that, my quiet, peaceful hunting expedition had transformed into an outing with a hyperactive furball who hadn't seen the outside world in seven whole days—dog years, that’s nearly a month! What could possibly go wrong?
As we pulled up to the permission, Alfie was bouncing around in the back of the Jeep like a toddler who’d just mainlined a double espresso. He was making it abundantly clear that his excitement levels were somewhere between "won the lottery" and "discovered where I hide the treats." I half-expected him to burst through the back window, paws first.
I tried to rein him in, giving his slip lead a little tug as we hopped out. Easy, lad, I muttered, though it was more a suggestion than a command. His enthusiasm was infectious, but I had to keep him on a tight leash—both figuratively and literally—or the only thing I’d be hunting today was a runaway Lab.
The weather had decided to play nice for once. According to my smartwatch, it was a rather delightful 22°C. The sun was out, birds were singing, and it was shaping up to be a cracking day. In fact, the whole scene was so idyllic, I half expected David Attenborough to pop out from behind a hedge and start narrating.
My shooting location today was an old marl-pit, excavated in the 18th century for building material. The charm of a marl pit lies in its clay base, which almost always holds a bit of water, making it a wildlife magnet. As we approached the pit’s edge, Alfie’s lead, which had been stretched taut by his eagerness, suddenly went slack. He stopped dead, about 20 metres from the pit, like someone had hit his ‘pause’ button. No more bouncing or wriggling—he was frozen, staring straight ahead as if he'd just seen the ghost of Christmas Past. I stood there, half expecting him to point out some quarry, maybe a rabbit or a woodpigeon. But there was nothing. Nada. Just an eerie silence and Alfie, who, instead of charging forward, now looked like he was sizing up the idea of retreating altogether. Which, coming from a dog who normally lives for the hunt, was more than a bit strange.
A woodpigeon suddenly exploded out of some ivy like it had been fired from a cannon, startling us both. But instead of getting excited, Alfie, in a rare display of cowardice, attempted to bolt in the opposite direction, nearly strangling himself on the lead in his haste to flee.
I quickly sat him down, knelt beside him, and gave him a soothing pat. What’s up with you, lad? I muttered, genuinely confused. Normally, he’d be all over something like this—head first into the brush without a second thought—but today he was acting like I’d dragged him into a haunted forest.
After a moment of attempted reassurance, I decided to get on with it. I loaded a pellet into my Weihrauch HW97K and gave Alfie the “heel” command as I began to descend into the hollow. Only, halfway down, I realised Alfie hadn’t moved an inch. He was still rooted to the spot at the top of the slope, looking at me like I’d just suggested we go for a swim in shark-infested waters. C’mon, boy! I whispered, a hint of impatience creeping in.
But no, he stood firm, as if my commands had become entirely optional today. Clearly, something was spooking him, but what? A woodpigeon couldn’t be the cause, surely… could it?
Down at the bottom, I moved carefully. What I thought was a rabbit shot into the thicket, vanishing before I could get a bead on it. I glanced up at Alfie, who was staring right back, having caught sight of it too. Only, he had all the enthusiasm of a garden gnome.
I've bagged a few dozen rabbits here over the years, though never fancied eating them—too meagre and with fur that's about as appealing as an old ragged mop. In past escapades, I've startled roe deer, muntjac, hares, and even the odd fox from this very refuge.
Then something caught my eye—something off. Standing tall and solid, was a large oak tree. Now, I’d been to this patch of land plenty before, and I could swear, I’d never seen that tree before. It felt out of place, like someone had plonked it there overnight for a bit of woodland theatre. Not that the tree itself was particularly creepy, but there was something about its presence that felt unnatural, like it didn’t quite belong here.
At the base of the trunk, there was a gaping hollow, large enough to fit a large dog—or, if I was daft enough to try, me. The bark around the opening was smooth and worn, like it had been there for centuries, with creatures of all sorts passing through over the years.
Curiosity got the better of me. Ignoring Alfie’s rather pointed look that clearly said, Leave it, mate, I wandered over to investigate. What on earth had been using this as a den? And how had I never noticed it before?
As I stepped closer, the dog started whining, his nerves getting the better of him. Shh, Alfie, it’s just a tree, I whispered, though even I wasn’t entirely convinced. This must be a fox den, surely. The earth around the base was disturbed, with fresh prints scattered about, clearly indicating that its occupant had been in and out recently.
Judging by the size of the den, I suspected it was a hefty fox, perhaps one that fancied itself a bit of a local lord in this neck of the woods. Yet, as I leaned in closer, I was slightly puzzled by the absence of that distinctive musky fox smell. Surely, if Alfie had caught a whiff, he’d have been down there like a shot.
He kept watching me from the pit’s edge, his eyes wide and shimmering with a nervous glint. Something was definitely off.
As I turned away from the tree and its unsettling hollow, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease creeping up my spine. It struck me how eerily quiet the area had become. The birds that usually filled the pit with their cheerful chatter were conspicuously absent, leaving the air heavy with a strange stillness that felt more oppressive than tranquil.
A quick glance at my watch revealed the temperature had dropped sharply to 14°C. Odd, considering we were barely a few feet below the surface of the field. Something about this whole scene didn’t sit right with me, and I could almost hear the caution bells ringing in my head.
I pushed through the undergrowth toward the black pond, which, in summer, was infamous for breeding swarms of midges that could make a grown man weep. Yet today, the scene was entirely different. There were no tracks, no prints—nothing. It was as if the whole place had been put on lockdown. As I gazed into the water's dark mirror, I saw the reflection of a pair of crows passing overhead, quickly veering away as they spotted me.
As I continued to shuffle about below, I caught glimpses of woodpigeons fluttering in and out of the trees on the pit's edge. With my sights set on bagging at least one, I figured it was time to get serious.
I made my way back up the slope, where Alfie was still firmly rooted to his spot, casting the odd nervous glance at that ominous tree trunk, as if it might spring to life and start chatting with him. Poor lad was on high alert.
The first bunch of pigeons landed just out of sight, tucked away behind the next tree in line. Typical. They always have a knack for making me work for it. With a silent prayer that they would stick around, I settled into a crouch, trying to become one with the undergrowth. I needed to blend in like a chameleon at a paint shop if I wanted any chance of a clean shot. With Alfie’s nervous energy buzzing behind me, it was a miracle I didn’t scare them away myself.
Finally, a pigeon landed just above me, perfectly positioned like it had been dropped there by the hunting gods themselves. I ranged it carefully, adjusting for the steep angle, and squeezed off a shot. The pellet struck clean under the chin, and the bird spiraled into the ivy.
I waited for the thud, but it never came. Must’ve wedged itself in the branches somewhere. I looked back at Alfie—head on paws, eyes wide, clearly saying: Let’s get out of here, boss!
More birds arrived, but none stayed long, thanks to Alfie’s constant twitching. Every rustle in the undergrowth set him off, his eyes repeatedly flicking to the tree trunk. That was enough for me. The heebie-jeebies had fully set in, and I had no intention of poking around any longer. I couldn’t even bring myself to search for the pigeon I’d shot; we were done!
I clipped Alfie’s lead back on, and he practically dragged me across the field, constantly glancing over his shoulder, as if the tree in the pit might suddenly uproot itself and follow us.
On the drive back home, I thought about how I’d spin this tale for my mates. Maybe I’d tell them I’d stumbled across some mythical beast’s lair—far more thrilling than admitting Alfie had been spooked by an unseen fox. That said, even I wasn’t entirely convinced I hadn’t just had a run-in with something a bit more sinister...
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