An Early November Morning

This morning Lynda and Peter came by and we sat outside in the sun for a while. As we were chatting, a dozen belled hunting dogs came bounding out of the woods and sniffed us curiously. The cinghiali hunting season started yesterday and apparently somebody spied one on my property. For half an hour the barking and shouting and shooting was right above the house. L & P left and the cats and I barracaded ourselves inside. I’m still hearing the occasional useless shot, so I’m pretty sure the biggo piggo went to ground. I know there’s a family of cinghiali up there on the hill. In March and April a female and two babies paraded by the house every day on their way to a spring box. This week I found evidence that an adult had been in the flower bed: it left two very large holes. I did not report it to a hunting club, as I could have, so if they catch one here I won’t share in the spoils.

Umbria is overrun with wild boar and hunting them is the only animal killing of which I approve. They are dangerous and destructive, digging up every kind of crop to get at the roots. The government also lets loose various farm-raised birds here, i.e. quail and pheasants, but hunting them is NOT a sport. The poor birds will walk up to anybody, expecting a handful of grain rather than a shot in the face.

An hour has passed and all is quiet. The hunters and dogs have given up, which usually happens at lunch time. Now they’ll return home, feeling like real men and sitting down to enjoy their pasta and roast chicken.