Fox Hunt

Fox hunt

He could hear the thunder of heavy hooves and the mad barking and yapping of what seemed like a thousand dogs. He struggled onwards, knowing what would happen if he so much as slipped. His flight, which was once so swift and soundless, was reduced to a heavy, irregular stumble. His limbs ached as if they were made of lead, and it was agony to force them to carry on running. His mouth was frothing and his eyes were bloodshot, his breath was coming in painful gasps, his chest heaving- and all the while, the pounding of hooves was slowly catching him up. He could hear a horn sounding. It was him this time. He had seen other foxes being torn apart in the mad and uneven struggle against the swarming mass of dogs.

His energy was slowly being drained from him; he could feel death hanging over him like a watchful hawk, ready to strike at the smallest chance. His vision started to blur as he stumbled onwards, but his pain was strangely numb now. Suddenly, his weary feet were caught on a protruding tree root and his exhausted body crashed down onto the dry leaves of the forest floor. He lay there, trembling and panting, dreading what would surly happen next. He could almost feel the gaping jaws and sharp teeth of the swarms of dogs all over his body. He heard the triumphant horn sounding-and that was the last he ever heard.

Who has the right to reduce such a beautiful and majestic creature to this torment and torture? No one has. Yet fox hunting still goes on.