Foxglove September 10

You might ask us what the point is of shooting rabbits that will be dying of myxomatosis very soon, and the answer is twofold. Shooting them now will spare them much suffering, and we know that those which might last the full three weeks before the disease finally claims them will eat as much as a healthy rabbit in those weeks.

So our pest control is timely and necessary, and we have planned it so, ever since we saw the first myxomatosed rabbit in this area, a few days back.

Through the bracken we drive, careful to miss the rabbit warrens that would sink a wheel or even two, these buries that are dug deeply into sandy soil and housing legions of rabbits.

We swing across, pause, find the first rabbit and shoot it, the noise-moderated rifle quiet enough not to disturb people or rabbits. Two more rabbits fall to the gun, and a bat appears above us, hawking the moths. This little drama slides out of sight as we negotiate the rise, and, looking down onto the next group of rabbits, pick out the shots.

The cover is just long enough: the rabbits are tempted to sit and wait out our passing rather than run into shelter. Here and there, the flick of an ear gives one away, or the light reflecting off a round, alert eye.

Sometimes a waving weed or crouched tussock catches our sight, looking for a moment so much like a rabbit, and then not, so that we wonder we could ever have thought it did.

There is a curved presence on the ground that is rabbit-sized but not rabbit-shaped: it takes off with the moonlight turning wing feathers to silver, and we have seen the first of the little owls, of which there are plenty here.

Easing the vehicle over the narrow track that is the only way through here, we see groups of rabbits running in. Some keep going, and some tantalise with a run and stop, run and stop, never long enough to take aim, for my colleague will not shoot unless sure of a kill. One rabbit stops by a warren, sits up for a last look around which is its last look around, but such rabbits are apt to kick themselves down in to the bury as they fall, and we would like to pick up as many of them as we can.

My colleague is swiftly out of the vehicle and with arm down the rabbit hole: this time he is lucky, and can reach the dead rabbit. Out it comes with a puff of fine black soil, and we are away again.

Along this side of the field it is not safe to shoot, so we make reasonable speed until we have a suitable background again, laughing about the rabbits that run away from our approach and that we cannot shoot. There are always pockets of rabbits on this unsafe ground, about which we can do little until we come by day with dog and ferrets. Thus does every method of pest control interweave with every other one, for here where we are shooting, ferreting would be a thankless task.

We cover all the ground available to us, our cargo of rabbits growing steadily. My friend is shooting well even for him, and the majority of rabbits are still free from disease. However, we have found sufficient sickly ones for an early return to be imperative, and we will arrange that with the landowner on the morrow.