The sangliers came at midnight. I wasn’t sure if it was their low grunting that woke me or my husband’s colourful list of expletives. Being a farmer with multiple crop damage from wild boar, he obviously didn’t appreciate the fact that they were blatantly scoffing pears in front of his bedroom window.
“Quels salauds” he breathed again, as we watched the shadows navigate through the trees searching for windfalls. Silhouetted by the odd street lamp that bordered the bottom of the orchard I counted 10. With long snouts, they all boasted body-builder physiques – wide shoulders tapering down to mini behinds. Something must have scared them. Heads lifted in unison and they all pelted out of the orchard in a line – nose to tail elephant style. The last we heard was the noise of their trotters crossing the road – a delicate sound of tap-dancers running on tarmac, before they disappeared into the darkness of the field opposite.
I don’t know what frightened them off. Maybe they got a whiff of the malevolence seeping from my husband’s pores, or maybe they just caught sight of me, standing starkers, at the window.
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