Fowling with a Fox under a Wolf Moon

I hung my chest waders to dry over a roof joist in the shed. They had dangled there, like a headless corpse, for four weeks. The business of hedge laying had got in the way of my wildfowling for far too long. My abstemiousness ended when I accepted an invitation to the Ouse Washes to shoot under the Wolf Moon.

I unhooked the bargain-basement neoprene leggings and was surprised by their lopsidedness and weight. I put my hand down deep inside the right leg and found the boot was full of peanuts from sole to calf. The wood mice, which I had long tolerated as amusing squatters, had repaid my hospitality by storing umpteen nuts in those unwholesome depths.

I emptied the mouse loot into a bucket and threw the now-lighter and nut-free waders into my truck.