The pheasant lives across the road. The crumbled biscuits are rejects from our cheese biscuit box, fallen past their damp-and-limp threshold.
The dispiriting little secret here is that immediately after this picture, the pheasant pushed off. The crumbs don't impress him much. I pleaded with Clare for some tasty oils/fat to sharpen the appeal, but my entreaties have fallen on deaf ears.
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Update: this morning its friend (offspring, mate?):
