Fire Away

My notion of sports entails box scores, standings and something to hit, throw, kick and/or catch.  Since I don’t want to catch any bullets, hunting doesn’t qualify as a sport, for me.  There are a whole bunch of people who disagree.

Last week, the Sun-Times’ nature writer did a story on the bobcat season in Illinois.  That’s right, hunters mounted a campaign to remove a longstanding ban that protected these creatures, all 40 pounds of them, which is what a big male weighs.  The “sport” netted hunters 141 trophies.  That comes out to 69 bobcat shot; 49 trapped (someone explain to me the sport in that); 12 taken out with a bow and arrow; and my absolute favorite, 11 picked up as roadkill.  Watch as the mighty hunter pulls over to the shoulder and expertly picks up the body….

Then, in yesterday’s NYT I see this story about hunters who use a bow and arrow to go after bighorn sheep; no doubt, the sheep are terrorizing entire neighborhoods out West.  Don’t get me wrong.  My heart doesn’t bleed vegan red.  I’m a carnivore, though one willing to respect the intelligence of other mammals.  Maybe someday I’ll turn away from meat, but not today.

Some animals and people don’t mix, especially in urban and suburban environments.  I don’t get all warm and fuzzy about coyotes or deer, which may be possessed by the souls of kamikaze pilots; one actually stared me down as I came to a stop before he turned into a hood ornament on my Ford.  And reports on the return of cougars and wolves to the Midwest leave me more than a little uncomfortable.  The bigger they are, the tastier I look on my little Schwinn.

Cull them, harvest them, control the population if you must, but don’t call it sport unless the bobcats get to keep score, too.