30/11/2025
Well, this is a post we never imagined having to write - not for a long, long time. But after days of watching, deliberating, hoping, and finally accepting the truth, the decision had to be made to give the Major a humane, respectful end.
The Major has been part of our lives for many years. He returned from the rut in mid-October in poor condition, but that was nothing unusual for him. Every season he pushed himself hard, putting every ounce of energy into the rut. Stags can lose up to 30% of their bodyweight during that time, and he certainly did his share of burning through reserves. Each year we’d fret over him, wondering if he’d bounce back… and every year he proved us right to believe in him. A bit of feeding, a bit of time, and he’d return to his strong, steady self, with that unmistakable presence and the big personality that made him who he was.
But this year was different. This year he only declined.
Over the past couple of weeks we watched him go downhill - slowly at first, then with heartbreaking speed. He grew thinner by the day and his usual spark seemed to dim. Over the weekend we went up with extra feed, hoping it might give him a boost. He didn’t look good on Saturday but when Megan came home from the feed run on Sunday, I knew the moment I saw her face that things were worse. The weather had turned cold and wet, and she’d found him standing beside the road, soaked and shivering all over.
On Monday we went back up, knowing deep down what was coming. By sheer luck we met John on his way down after a breakdown with the Argo. His assessment matched ours instantly: he wasn’t going to make it. As much as we didn’t want to accept it, that confirmation from another professional was a relief. When you know an animal this well, when you’ve spent years with him, it becomes incredibly hard to separate your emotions from the reality of what must be done.
We said on the drive back down the hill that if he had been any other stag - one we didn’t know, one without all this history - the decision would have been straightforward. But with him, we were getting too emotionally involved. We even found ourselves talking about taking buckets of conditioning mix up to give him a warm feed, clinging to that tiny hope. But at the end of the day, he was a wild animal suffering. Keeping him going for our sake would have been wrong.
Tuesday arrived, and I knew the decision had to be carried out. What I didn’t yet know was whether I would be able to take the shot myself. We had some fantastic German guests out with us, and they made it clear: as difficult as it was, it was too personal for anyone else. If the Major was to be put to rest, it should be by the person who had known him all these years. I dreaded it, but I knew they were right.
It’s never easy to shoot an animal you know - one whose voice you recognise, one whose habits you could predict, one who trusted you enough to walk within arm’s reach. You always hope that if the moment ever comes, you’ll see them out on the hill, a little removed, so you can split yourself from your feelings. But that wasn’t how it unfolded.
When we reached the feeding point, he was standing in the exact spot we had left him the day before. His spine and hips jutted sharply from his coat, his ribs clearly visible, and his back end trembled. It was a terrible sight, but it brought clarity. The decision, though heartbreaking, became simple.
He went quickly, cleanly, and without fear.
I was emotional as we moved him gently down into a bit of banking, where his body could return naturally to the grass and peat he had lived his life upon. The Germans, in a gesture that meant more to me than I could ever say, plucked sprigs of heather - some to place in the Major’s mouth as a symbol of a final meal, and some for my hat. They said that had they brought their hunting horns, they would have sounded the traditional farewell for a noble stag.
The Major was a noble stag, one of the finest we’ve possibly had on this ground. His antlers were always impressive, heavy and dense and tall. He produced 10 points in 2021, 13 in 2022, 10 in 2023, 14 last year, and 11 this year. And it wasn’t just his antlers, he was a character. The kind you only get once in a lifetime.
He was always the last to drift off at the end of the feeding season, and the first to come home after the rut. He kept us guessing every year about what sort of head he’d grow. And he was vocal. He’d always greet us with a little “meh,” sometimes soft, sometimes impatient, always unmistakably him. The longer we stopped to talk or work, the louder and more frequent his calls became, like he was telling us to hurry up.
For all his size and rank as head of the herd, he had a gentle, almost timid nature. He never threw his weight around more than needed. And when it came time to put out the fodder beet, he was downright comical, always closing his eyes as though convinced he’d be hit, even though he never was.
And then came the final twist in his story.
As with all the stags we cull, we went through the process of ageing him. When I first checked his jaw, I was confused, and once I’d managed to get a proper look, I was floored. After speaking with the whole team, we came to a unanimous conclusion:
The Major was at least 21 years old.
It’s astonishing. I’d always said he still looked bright in the face and had more to give. But his teeth were worn right down to the bone. How he managed to maintain such incredible antlers, year after year, is something I’ll never understand. And despite always coming back thin from the rut, he somehow rallied every single season - regaining his weight, reclaiming his status, and carrying himself with that same quiet authority.
It’s going to take a long time to adjust to him not being here. Every time we come round that final corner of the road, I know we’ll still look for him standing on the banking, waiting for us with that familiar little “meh.”
The hill will feel emptier without him. But we’re grateful for the years we had, the memories he gave us, and the privilege of having known such a remarkable, once-in-a-lifetime stag.
Rest easy, Major. You earned it.
