So far, I’ve
shot a rifle—or was it a shotgun?—once in my life. I may even have hit my target, a bird that
lost some feathers if nothing else. That
one time was enough, though the thought of squirrel hunting is tempting. Trust me, if they keep digging up my lawn in
search of treasure, I may give in.
But I won’t go
after ducks, pheasant or deer. They’re
not part of my palate, so what’s the point?
Ditto the recent move by the state of Illinois to allow hunting of lynx,
or bob cats. Really? What a mighty trophy that. As far as I can tell, Clare has yet to
discharge a firearm.
Fish I do eat,
and have gone after, but no more.
Rowboats and piers stopped being my thing long ago. My sister Barb always liked the “sport” more
than me, and she tried to interest Clare in it.
But the only way that was going to happen was if my daughter could hit
them with a baseball bat or chase them around the bases.
What’s my
point? Just that we should eat what we
kill and not appoint ourselves masters of the cull for the sake of the
environment. Madness that way lurks.
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