Hunt only for food not the pleasure of it!
|Throughout rural America there is one annual event that continues to excite the passions of millions of people even though our modern supply and distribution systems make it obsolete and superfluous. That special event is hunting in general and deer hunting in particular.
Most of my relatives in this neck of the woods metamorphose into a rare species of human the very second deer season opens. You can clearly see the primal urge as it clouds their vision and consumes every facet of their minds the instant they awaken on opening day.
I agree in some respect, there is nothing wrong with hunting, providing of course it doesn't harm one's family life or job security. I was once an avid hunter and still enjoy the fruits of a good hunt because you simply cannot find fresh venison, quail, dove, rabbit, squirrel, turkey or pheasant in the local supermarket.
However, just because I do not hunt anymore does not mean that I disapprove of it. Au-contraire, I love to accompany someone on a good hunt and observe as they satiate that primordial urge.
I also remember my last great hunt quite vividly.
A few of my closest friends and me were in a pristine little valley overlooking a small trail with a quaint little meadow below it. I had the best hunting stand of all; given that position of prominence because I had the most trophies in our small group.
We were extremely excited, our primitive urges beyond measurement, our lust to kill overpowering, we could barely wait to taste and smell the coppery blood of our intended prey.
After several hours of apprehensive waiting I finally heard faint movement in the bushes to my left. It sounded like the rustling of a large herd of deer.
I gave a signal to a friend in a stand about ten yards to my left, insuring that he knew that I had the first shot, that mine was to be the first kill.
Moments later the prey entered the killing zone, my sites were set, my rifle kicked with brute force into my shoulder.
The prey went down with the first shot, dropping like a bag of sand. I turned my attention to the second target and pumped three or four rounds into it in rapid succession. I then noticed that the hunting companions to my left had opened fire on their own prey, rifles were steadily barking, shouts of harsh anger and rapturous joy permeated the scene.
In an instant it was all over, the game lying dead along the small meandering trail, the tang of fresh blood, acidic urine, putrid feces and burned gunpowder created a nauseating gumbo of smells. Excitement was high.
None of the targets had escaped the maddening onslaught of our urge to kill.
I cautiously approached the position where my personal kills lay steaming in the blood stained grass. My prey consisted of one male and one female. The male was around twelve years old and the female could not have been more than ten. Both wore black pajama-like clothing and both had ammunition pouches, grenades, and personal gear wrapped around them. A much older male, almost ancient, lay twitching near by. The shattered remains of their own rifles bore mute testimony to the fact that they were the prey we sought -- the elusive enemy.
Our hunt that day was not completely successful. The force we hit was much larger than we thought and two of my best friends, both nineteen years old, went home in body bags.
You might say the death of one ten year old girl, one twelve year old boy, an old man, and two nineteen year old boys, compounded with a record number of other kills, finally satiated my primordial urge to hunt.
I do not possess that desperate thurst to kill anymore.
After all, compared to my friends and relatives, I still have the most trophies.
Trophies I will cry over until the day I die!
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