Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Eating the enemy
Some weeks ago, on one of those sunny afternoons when everything seems so perfect that it is hard to imagine anything bad will ever happen again, I shot a squirrel. It was a magisterial moment; he tumbled from a high oak tree while an electric church organ tinkled in the distance. After writing “medium-sized squirrel” on a freezer bag, I popped him in, dropped him in a drawer and went to make a whisky sour.
A few days ago I pulled him out and turned him into some nuggets to serve as canapés for a little group of charming elderly people. “I don’t like squirrel,” moaned a retired academic. “I don’t think you’ve ever tried it,” I replied, like a mother battling a wearisome toddler.
Said academic tentatively dipped one in some chilli jam, and lifted it to his mouth with a look of disgust. As he chewed his face changed and then he ate another. “These are superb,” he announced to the group. I was delighted. I have often wished that pheasant tasted quite as nice as squirrel. I wonder if the problem of shoots struggling to get rid of game would be as bad if that were the case.
Sated on nuggets, I lay in bed that night and thought about the plight of our dear red squirrel. Then I fell asleep and dreamed about a giant one with a megaphone shouting: “Your country needs you to eat the enemy.”
Patrick Galbraith, Editor