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Marigold knew she had it, the pain told her so, especially around the eyes. She had seen it in others, but she was not giving in, no-siree. Of course she knew who was responsible. They were the root of all her tribes problems. They left their litter everywhere, and their dogs, well they always meant trouble.

But worse was coming, for she had seen the official pinning up the notice. Application for planning permission.  Twenty eight houses! Had not the farm that had been built on her families land ninety years back done enough damage. At least in recent years the farm had been grossly neglected. Allowing nourishing wild plants to grow around and up and over the mountains of well rotted manure and bales of hay. This had at least increased the level of protective plant cover and her families food supply, even if it also had allowed the rats to flourish.

But shiney new houses with their neat shaved lawns and strange foreign plant’s that left a bitter taste in your mouth. I ask you. Marigold marched out and lay down in front of the mechanical digger. Her last thought was, at least if it did not stop, her pain would stop and the rooks would benefit from her remains. Then Harry an old grey long eared bat fire a warning shot and the planning officer held up his hand.

O well one more day of pain it is then.

A friend of marigolds
A friend of Marigold
A friend of Harry's
A friend of Harry
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