A pheasant Plucker

My father does not like waste.  This manifests itself in many ways, but mostly anything that is edible gets eaten – despite the mould.   My first memory of pheasant was being  ushered out the door to the next door neighbours house to deal with the, now hung, pheasant. 
I recall sitting on their hall floor with Mrs neighbour at one end of the sheets of newspaper and me at the other.  There was a pause followed by an amazing flurry of feathers as we plucked the birds.  For those of you unfamiliar with this task plucking involves the rapid transfer of as many feathers from the bird onto oneself.     I will spare you those details of gutting but it isn’t that dissimilar and tends to make the feathers stick better.
Yesterday I was coming down the road on my motorcycle and a pheasant was killed on the other carriage way. I stopped, picked it up and flung it over the handlebars.  I was feeling rather pleased as it could join the other pheasant that was put to hang the day before.  I set off at 50mph in serious smug mode.
50mph is a pretty good speed to pluck a pheasant.  It wasn’t long before my visibility was seriously impaired due to the flurry of feathers rising in the air. I eventually stopped in a parking spot and transferred my feathery friend, with it’s slightly bare tum, to the top box.
I have no doubt that the ethics of road kill are a complex subject  but I certainly think it would be wrong to leave something that is edible to rot.