“Feckin’ foxes,” she yells, kicking the bin bag.
She was baffled by how they kept coming. She’d put so much poison in her bin bags that all the neighbour’s cats and most of the dogs had died. But never all of the foxes.
She ties the top of the bin bag shut, again, and drops it in the metal can. “Feckin’ foxes.”
Last week she moved onto injecting cyanide into meat and treats, and leaving them about the estate. Nearly all the local birds were dead now.
She wanders back indoors. She feels rank break against the back of her neck. She turns. Rows of sharp yellow teeth greet her.