The death of a horse (or a weasel) is a feast for a crow

I think the only animal my father was afraid of was the weasel. I saw

him pack up his things and head for home once when he had just seen a

weasel. He didn't trust them. You couldn't trust them. After all,

they would search you out and get back at you for weasel-perceived

wrongs. Zappa's "Weasels Ripped My Flesh" and all that.



He told me the story of losing all his ducks or chickens as a boy when

weasels ate the birds' feet from below the chicken wire.



I think I never saw a weasel until today. This afternoon, we were

walking and we saw this little fellow lying beside a brook and a busy

road, with a crow pecking at his head. He was only recently dead, I

think. I didn't stop long enough to figure out that he was a weasel,

but an hour later I came by again and probably the same crow was there

still, this time having unearthed some edibles in the weasel's mouth.

I shooed him away long enough to take a couple of pictures. The crow

stayed about three metres away until I moved away and he moved in

again.



I suspect the weasel was hit by a car and made it to here, about five

metres away fr the road, to expire. Too bad. He was a pretty little

thing. Even if he was totally untrustworthy.