Originally Posted by
Frank Apisa
Okay.
Here is an essay I wrote several years back that states my position on "huinting." I'll listen to yours if you listen to mine.
Another hunting season is upon us in New Jersey and those of us not especially enamored of that activity are being treated to the annual parade of deer carcasses tied to the fenders and roofs of cars driven by guys with chests puffed out and wide grins of pride distorting their faces.
To be fair to them, though, no matter how much we dislike their “sport,” if the facts put forth in defense of “hunting” are even half true, the “hunters” are providing a much needed service to the deer population—although I doubt you’d get many deer to agree.
From what I’ve read, extensive thinning of the herd apparently is something which should be done regularly, and since the careless automobile drivers of the state are simply not up to the job (they do try, though, don’t they!) why not let “hunters” do the slaughter? The get such a kick out of it.
And continuing in the spirit of fairness, I’d like to acknowledge the following items which seem to matter so much to “hunters”:
First, someone did indeed kill the animal that furnished my meatloaf dinner last night, just as someone did kill the animal whose hide was used for the shoes I am wearing.
Secondly, I agree that guns do not kill people—people kill people.
And thirdly, there is no way to impact significantly on the problem of people killing other people by enacting gun control laws. In my opinion, there is not on piece of such legislation that truly is worthwhile.
Now with that out of the way, and notwithstanding any of it, on to my main theme.
A friend of mine recently asked my opinion of a deer head hanging on one of his walls. He had killed the animal, had its head stuffed and mounted, and now has it displayed over the stairway leading down to the family room. “I know you hate this kind of thing,” he offered, “but isn’t it a beautiful trophy? A ten-point buck! Just look at that head.”
And he was right, of course; it was a beautiful head. Deer are very beautiful creatures! I told my friend so—and gave him the benefit of the rest of my reaction to the sight, which was that while I respected his right to “hunt”, my feelings were that if I ever killed such a magnificent animal, even if accidentally, I would do everything in my power to prevent anybody else from ever finding out about it.
I told him that I had trouble understanding why he wanted to advertise the fact that he had done so, especially to people he knows, and that I couldn’t see why he was so prideful about it. Killing the animal was not act of great courage, nor even of much skill—and as I saw it, spoke of a disposition and conscience beneath the dignity of civilized humans in general and of my friend in particular.
Now don’t get me wrong; Frankie’s a great guy; and old and trusted ally. Besides sharing first names, we are of like mind on a long list of other subjects. But he likes to “hunt” while I decidedly do not. He took my criticism with equanimity—although he did call me a puny, worthless, golf-playing sissy, as I remember it.
But be that as it may, my antagonism toward “hunters” is considerable and is not faked. It is especially strong when I am required to use words like “hunter” and “hunting,” which accounts for the quotation marks I’ve used around those words up to this point in my essay.
As far as I am concerned, the honorific hunter is a noble one. Hunters were, after all, the people who initially led our species down out of the trees; the providers/protectors who enabled us to move on to our present stage of evolution. The appellation properly and proudly applies to Stone Age beings going after very dangerous prey with rudimentary armament—relying primarily on superior intelligence and tactics to make safe kills.
The tradition carries down with honor to the to the pygmies of Africa who hunted elephant for food with spears; native Americans who risked life and limb amid herds of bison using bows and arrows; and to Eskimo men who dared battle whales from kayaks using hand-thrown harpoons.
But a guy who sits in a blind in the woods waiting for an unsuspecting deer to walk by so he can shoot it with a shotgun has precious little in common with those brave souls. To appropriate for themselves the title “hunter” and to call the act of shooting the fearsome American White-tail from ambush “hunting” is laughable—to refer to themselves as “sportsmen,” an instance of unmitigated gall.
Psychologists tell us that hunters often have personal deficiencies for which they are trying subconsciously to compensate with their “hunting.” But their need for compensation aside, they should have the decency not to bore the rest of us with their delusions that this activity makes them some sort of he-men. In fact, it shows them to be cold-blooded, calculating killers and nothing more. And out of respect for the honorable hunters who have gone before, they should really use some other term to describe their activity.
Finally, I’d advise all of you who “hunt” to see a surgeon about transplanting new taste buds into your mouths, because venison tastes like manure smells. No doctoring up will ever change that—and I am sick and tired of hearing about recipes that make it taste like pork.
In fact, I wonder if one of the requirements for a deer-hunting license shouldn’t be to have the applicant publicly eat a full meal of the stuff without throwing up.
We’d probably end up with a lot fewer so-called hunters.
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