Sprout, the Magpie and me.

A bit of background for any who might be interested to know it!

This morning, as every morning I got up, went down to make a and feed the cats, leaving the window ajar for them to go out once they have finished. I trundled upstairs with my tea and settled down to look through emails etc.

After a while I could hear Oliver Sprout whingeing on about something (nothing unusual there) and shouted down to ask him what was the matter. Yes, I know he's very unlikely to actually tell me, but this often results in him thundering up the stairs like a pit pony being let out on a summer break and landing with a triumphant burst on the desk full of what he obviously considers to be "Very Important News".

This didn't happen, but the noise continued so I went to take a look. The first thing I saw were some large black feathers on the floor. The next thing was himself under the kitchen table with his mouth very full of magpie. Previous attempts at bird rescue (usually smaller ones) have never ended well, so I decided to shut the kitchen door and leave him to it. (I don't like magpies much anyway, they kill the young of other birds and do dreadful things to stuck sheep and we do have a lot of them around making their racket, which I could still hear coming from the trees outside) I planned to have my shower, then go down and clear up the remains with a dustpan and brush.

After my shower, I went down to make a cup of coffee and found Oliver Sprout sitting on a kitchen chair having a wash in a very nonchalant manner, and the magpie hopping about under the table . I removed Sprout, and went to look for back up. Neighbour 1 reacted as if I'd asked her to help out with some sort of satanic ritual and declined, saying she was late for work and had a fear of birds anyway. Neighbour 2 stuck her head out of the bedroom window and said she would just get dressed and be right with me, but I had the distinct feeling that it might take some time.

I decided to woman up and get a grip. I grabbed a towel and proceeded to approach the bird. It was more agile than I thought, and we engaged in a series of "bullfighting" manoeuvres as it hopped and fluttered around the kitchen, dodging the towel and me. Eventually I managed to corner it, threw the towel over it and picked it up.

Carrying it outside, I did wonder if the kindest thing to do would be to wring it's neck, but wasn't sure I could do it cleanly. I did very briefly toy with the idea of whacking it with a shovel, but thought that the sight of a woman with wet hair dressed only in a bathrobe bludgeoning an unidentified bundle on the grass bank might lead the neighbours to try to get me sectioned.

I called up to Neighbour 2 that I had got it, so she didn't need to help after all. She popped her head out of the window and asked if it was still alive. I undid the bundle and as the wretched bird hopped and then flew (albeit at a low altitude) off, I said "looks like it, but I'm not sure how injured or shocked it might be".

At that point, Frosty, one of her cat's took off in hot pursuit of it

Neither of us have seen a dead magpie adorning our doorsteps, so I'm afraid the story doesn't have a proper ending.