The Flock That Christendom Forgot: Or, an animal padre’s up hill pilgrimage!
What made me get involved in animal activism? This is
a question I have frequently been asked, and the answer is two
incidents.
My first experience
I am now 79 years of age and my first impetus to
speak out occurred in the middle sixties when I was a newly ordained
Congregational minister, with pastoral oversight of a thriving church in
Barnsley and the other within the picturesque Yorkshire village of
Clayton West, near Wakefield. One remembers the incident well! It was a
Sunday afternoon and across from the village’s Manse was a track that
went into the country. Indeed, hardly had we started on this uphill walk
than did my previous wife remark on the stench that was coming from what
appeared to be an old Nissan hut of the war years.
However, as we moved closer, she who was then my wife
spoke in horror of the sound that was coming from within it. “Why, it’s
none else than one of those horrid breeding huts in which poultry are
reared in utter darkness. And there’s the proof: the windows are all
boarded up so that they can’t even see the light of day. Such cruelty
should not be allowed. Something needs to be done about it!.” She looked
at me; saw by my face how I was feeling, and speedily added, “Yes, but
we can’t do anything. The folk in this village are very much
interrelated Jim, if we protested then the whole community would tell
us, as ‘comers in’ where to go. We’d be literally hounded”
Yes, and my former wife was correct. Indeed, already
I had been criticised for outspokenness. On a recent occasion the
Deacons had edited my Church News Letter. They’d chosen to tone down
what I had written before handing it in at the printerss. As a
consequence, heated words had already been exchanged. Well, I hadn't
studied five intensive years away from home to be a mere puppet in the
hands of a local church board and, consequently, felt justly peeved.
over the issue. More and more, I was feeling envious of the local
Anglican rector. Along with other vicars and rectors, he had what was
known as 'the parson's freehold'. It was a privilege that had come about
in the far off past due to frequent clashes between the parson of the
parish and local gentry, such as a squire, pontificating to God’s
representative in the parish
Consequently, after repeated business meetings at
this village Chapel - where those who paid the piper felt justified in
calling the tune! -1 realised that to minister to a whole community
unhindered one needed to transfer to the Church Of England, even though
I would not receive a protected freehold until having served one’s title
as a curate; and this would take a minimum of three years.
My second experience
Well, 1 need only add that it occurred during those
three years as a curate which, after the first year seemed an eternity!
Yes, and all because of a clash well through the second year due to
local animal cruelty:: On my way back to the curates house from the
mother church a small wood had to be traversed; and on one occasion
within it I beheld a site that turned one’s stomach: a cat was hung up,
strangled from the branch of a tree by a piece of string, and its very
eyes were hung out from the sockets. Well, as if this were not enough,
on reaching home my former wife pointed to a bird – by no the first! -
which had been deliberately shot by young thugs of the area snooping
round the parish with air guns.
Indeed, the bird we picked up was - if I remember
correctly - breathing its last; and such was becoming almost a nightly
experience. I’d witnessed enough. Something had to be done. So, on the
spur of the moment I speedily concocted a letter and sent it to the
Doncaster Evening newspaper. Indeed, in response to it a reporter and
photographer came out on the scene; and this resulted in front page
coverage within the next evening's paper. It was illustrated with the
horrific illustration of the strangled cat inside, along with the
front-page headline: 'Curate attacks local thugs'. Consequently, later
that evening 'the balloon went, well and truly, up!' The Vicar phoned
me, demanding to know why I had made such a public outburst. Indeed, he
affirmed, I was giving a bad name to his parish and, already, a
deputation from the mothers of the young thugs had made their feelings
known on his doorstep. “What harm is there”, he furiously raged, “in
having air guns? Two of my lads possess them!”
(to be continued next quarter).
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