The Hunt

The title of this post sounds really exciting, doesn't it? My Husband would say the subject matter is in fact very exciting, but I'm not sure I really agree. This inhumane act of death is only being posted per request of my husband (and when I say request, I actually mean if I don't post it, he won't let me visit the mall any time soon). If it were up to me, the word "HUNT" would be added to the four letter word list and people's mouths' would get washed out with soap just for thinking it let alone actually doing it. I've never been a huge fan of hunting, probably because some great uncle of mine hung a decrepit old deer head up in our little family cabin. Every year we'd go, and my stinkin' brother would try to make me touch it's eyes or tell me it was going to come alive in the night and get me. So I guess it would be ironic that I'd marry a hunter. A month or so before we got married when my mind was not functioning properly due to the "potential wedded bliss erases all reason syndrome", my husband talked me into going dove hunting with him (this should have been a big sign, considering doves are the actual love birds of lore). He showed me how to shoot the shotgun, and I turned out to be a half-decent shot. I knocked one out of a tree, but when we found it at the base, it wasn't quite dead yet. My husband said I had to finish it off, but it looked at me with these sad, quivering, accusing eyes, and I just couldn't do it. I cried and went back to the car while Zane "put it out of it's suffering"- the suffering I had caused. So back to the point at hand. I never put up a fuss when Zane wants to go bird hunting, or worse, deer or elk hunting. I just pray that he doesn't hit anything so his soul will be saved from killing innocent animals and hope that the Man upstairs likes me better that day then Zane and his "please let me get that big one over there." So far my strategy has worked, but I forgot to factor in the fact that I now have two little boys that my husband is dying to turn into little hunters. Now I pitch a royal fit any time Zane talks about letting the boys touch a gun- if Dick Chaney can manage to shoot someone in the butt, imagine what damage little kids could do. So he just tells me he'll only let them walk along with him and watch. Yeah, right. Here's a picture of my son, Wyatt, with a huge pheasant that he shot himself last weekend. Zane was so proud he was practically dancing around the yard. When I got mad, he told me Wyatt shot it with a BB gun. Now I'm not stupid, a BB would have to hit a pheasant right between the eyes to kill it- he totally used Zane's shotgun. While I'm extremely proud that my son is such a great shot, I'm a little disappointed that he didn't seem to feel any sadness about killing that poor, defenseless bird. Probably because Zane was so darn excited for him. Don't worry, I've been trying to help the guilt along these past few days, so we'll see what happens. But little boys idolize their dads, so I'm not holding out much hope. Now I'm not trying to convince people that all hunting is bad. If we were ever starving, I'd have no problem shooting stuff to eat. But people who say they hunt because they like deer meat are totally lying, as well as people who say pheasants taste like chicken- they so DO NOT. Anyways, I'll stop my ranting now. If I've helped anyone out there to come into the light, I'll consider this post a success. And where these ARE pretty neat pics, I have to say to Wyatt- good job, son.