Dobermann. Golf course. Yards of barbed wire fence. Rabbit.
Dobermann sees rabbit, belts through tiniest hole in the fence with no pause to reflect the consequences – dobermanns aren’t great on consequences. Blood, shouting, etc. Only the rabbit seems to think it’s funny, he’s laughing his tits off in a bunker.
Word on the street (of St Marychurch) is that the fence is there to stop the kids getting in and ripping up the greens. The truth is, the kids are too busy getting pissed and beating the crap out of each other in Newton Abbot and it’s the badgers, partying on, as badgers do. There’s not a fence yet built that can stand between a badger and its breakfast and besides, I can step over the damn fence at any point without fear of fatherhood. So what’s the point.
Hence shouty, screamy phone call to golf club where, after I’ve calmed down and the club secretary has come back out from behind his filing cabinet, we’ve agreed that unless they take their fucking barbed wire fence down I’ll take the fucking thing down myself. The fucking fuckers.
That was three weeks ago. I’m planning the dawn raid over a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.