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Coincident with the demise of Harry the peacock, I commenced
reading the autobiography of Hunter S. Thompson. The multi-faceted HST kept
pet peafowl (I never knew that) and explains the birds ranged widely by day,
returning home at night.
"Peacocks don't move around much at night," according to Thompson. "They
like a high place to roost, and will usually find one before sundown." Anyhow,
one of his peafowl missed curfew one evening and perched on a power pole. "It
stepped on a power line and caused a short circuit that burned him to a cinder
blew out my electrics. The power returned but the bird did not. It was fried
like a ball of bacon. We couldn't even eat it."
This afternoon, as I drove back from Wagga, while hauling up the range
south of Cootamundra, I saw two Wedge-tailed Eagles feasting on a road-killed
roo. Ten kilometres later, I saw another Wedge-tailed Eagle stripping morsels of
road-squished fox from the bitumen.
RIP Harry
RIP Hunter's peacock
RIP Hunter S. Thompson, who blew his brains out a few months ago.
John Layton
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