I've pulled an oyster, which is an animal, off a rocky Pacific shoreline, cracked it open and eaten it live. I killed it by swallowing it. People aren't too shocked by this, because raw oysters you order in a restaurant are still alive, if you are lucky.

Michael Pollan in his book "The omnivore's dilemma" got into the subject of the difference between pain and suffering. He references Daniel C. Dennett who is a leading thinker on this subject.

The bottom line is that it is difficult to compare pain and suffering between humans and other animals.

http://michaelpollan.com/articles-archiv....

Quote:

That said, it can be argued that human pain differs from animal pain by an order of magnitude. This qualitative difference is largely the result of our possession of language and, by virtue of language, an ability to have thoughts about thoughts and to imagine alternatives to our current reality. The philosopher Daniel C. Dennett suggests that we would do well to draw a distinction between pain, which a great many animals experience, and suffering, which depends on a degree of self-consciousness only a few animals appear to command. Suffering in this view is not just lots of pain but pain intensified by human emotions like loss, sadness, worry, regret, self-pity, shame, humiliation and dread.

Consider castration. No one would deny the procedure is painful to animals, yet animals appear to get over it in a way humans do not. (Some rhesus monkeys competing for mates will bite off a rival’s testicle; the very next day the victim may be observed mating, seemingly little the worse for wear.) Surely the suffering of a man able to comprehend the full implications of castration, to anticipate the event and contemplate its aftermath, represents an agony of another order.

By the same token, however, language and all that comes with it can also make certain kinds of pain more bearable. A trip to the dentist would be a torment for an ape that couldn’t be made to understand the purpose and duration of the procedure.

As humans contemplating the pain and suffering of animals, we do need to guard against projecting on to them what the same experience would feel like to us. Watching a steer force-marched up the ramp to the kill-floor door, as I have done, I need to remind myself that this is not Sean Penn in “Dead Man Walking,” that in a bovine brain the concept of nonexistence is blissfully absent. “If we fail to find suffering in the animal lives we can see,” Dennett writes in “Kinds of Minds,” “we can rest assured there is no invisible suffering somewhere in their brains. If we find suffering, we will recognize it without difficulty.”

We live on a farm, and raise pigs, goats and poultry. I introduced our daughter to butchering when she was 4, and have always tried to raise her with a complete understanding of where food comes from. I wish more kids could get exposed to real life, but don't know how it could feasibly be done.

Karl talks about being present at a bad killing (which I've done with a pig, which IMO are smarter than dogs), but even "good" killings are (hopefully) not a picnic. I sliced the necks of about 60 chickens last month, and it isn't a trivial thing.

As a parent, I'm baffled by other parents who would not use every measure to defend their young.

I'm not sure I agree with Mr. Pollan, Spence.

Suffering (or lack thereof), in and of itself, is only a small part of the equation. If you express gratitude to another living being before killing it, do you do so because it willingly gave its last breath so that you may continue to breathe? Or are you thanking it for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and thus at your mercy?

I may have missed it, but I haven't seen anyone mention asking for permission before killing something. Does that sound crazy to you? Before you respond, let me ask you if you've ever been stabbed, shot or otherwise wounded in a way that was intended to kill you.

I have.

Even with 10 years of pain and suffering worth of recovery, you know what I was most*****ed about? He didn't have my permission. How do I know this? Well, I left and came back several times ... and was presented with a distinct choice on the final return. I could have opted to die. (yes, this is really how it goes). I chose to live because it just wasn't my time yet. Frankly, I would have much preferred to die. Much. But it wasn't his choice to make. He didn't "check in" in any way that was appropriate before coming to the decision to off me.

The idea of killing a crazed person intent on the destruction of other living beings? See, now, that has purpose. In fact, there's a case to be made that it is 100% appropriate, both for the killer and the killee. We aren't trained in this culture to make these distinctions, but they are there. And they're spiritual.

If we're being judgmental, we like to think of Cardinal sinners as having to "answer" (in a punitive way) for the "wrongs" they've done. But this is exactly why we have to be so careful NOT to judge. Yes we all must answer for our deeds. But it is in the answering that illumination becomes possible, and where distinctions between one killing over another killing (that may appear to the naked eye as identical) are revealed. All killings -- not just human on human. Some Christians like to point to God providing dominion over the animals as a license to plunder. It is not. It's a sacred responsibility.

I think all the shouting around gun control causes this sacred responsibility to get lost in the din. It isn't about guns at all.

Also, not mentioned so far, is how our ancestors were present when relatives died.

Today, virtually no one except doctors & nurses sees dying anymore. It used to be the norm.

As Karl writes, the lack of exposure to natural death leads to desensitization of death. It would be quite interesting to see more interviews with the drone operators, who surely must approach their job as a glorified video game. I assume everyone is familiar with the drone operator who killed a child:

http://www.spiegel.de/international/worl....

Sort of related: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kindertoten....

heard here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxKt-8Gdx....

Quote:

I may have missed it, but I haven't seen anyone mention asking for permission before killing something.

I'd do that, but I'd risk scaring it away before I could shoot it with my high-power, scary, scary rifle.

My first experience hunting land food was use of sticks when I was about 11 or 12. Mom gave me 70 cents to go to the village and buy a chicken. She said she talked to a lady there and they said anytime you want a chicken to come over. So I rowed the boat ashore and went to the village. I met the lady and handed her the 70 cents in local currency and she directed the kids to go get a chicken. I went with the kids. They all armed themselves with sticks. We then chased the chickens out onto the mud flats and hurled sticks along the ground until one of the chickens had a broken leg. One of the kids grabbed the chicken and broke the chickens neck and handed it to me.

Now I had a problem! If I accepted the chicken and took it back to the boat feathers and all, not to mention the small fact that I had never dressed a bird in my life, dad was going to be mad. So I told the kids we need to talk to their mom, who had them dress the chicken while I watched.

That was the toughest bird I have ever eaten. Makes you appreciate the commercially grown birds you buy in the store.

Then there was the time I became "the hunted". We were anchored at Christmas Island. Some kids from another sailboat came over in their dingy and invited me to dinner on their boat. Our dingy was not in the water so I said I would swim over later. Since we were going to fish after dinner I needed to get some bait on the way over.

About 400 yards separated our vessels and it was kinda starting to get dark. the water was about 35 or 40 ft deep. So I donned my mask fins and snorkel and started free dive spear fishing on my way over to their yacht.

About half way I dove down and speared 3 fish. I was using a 3 pronged hand sling spear and like Karl says, it is not always cut and dry and in the bag. All three of the fish got off the end of my spear before I could bag them. With my lungs starting to heave from the time I was down spearing, I had to make a fast accent which meant leaving my spear on the bottom.

As I was midway to the surface, I noticed a large shark was circling me! I got to the surface gasping for breath, but at the same time, I needed to keep my eye on that shark. Thank God for snorkels. So there I was, 200 yards from safety in either direction and it is starting to get near twilight. This is a very uncomfortable situation not having a weapon, and there is an animal bigger than you with very sharp teeth somewhere in the murky water below. My only chance I figured was I had to swim back down to the bottom to retrieve my spear. After hyperventilating a few deep breaths I dove down and luckily was able to quickly locate my spear. On the way up the shark was circling me again.

That 200 yard swim to the other boat was a long one, with me looking nervously about the whole way. I had to ditch my fish stringer, which was a homemade one out of a cord and coat hanger wire that was normally tied around my waist.

Needless to say, I opted to take their dingy back after dinner rather than making the swim at night.

I still remember catching my first fish down at the docks and my dad yanking the hook from it's mouth and throwing it into the bucket to flop around and eventually die. It was supposed to feel good. It didn't. Yet, I went down to the dock a couple weeks later and did the same thing over again.

Sometimes that the way life turns out.

Quote:

the lion does not instantly kill its quarry, it usually first bites at the legs or other part of the body and knocks it down, seriously injuring it.

Anyone ever seen or read about how timber wolves hunt Elk, Moose, etc.? Apparently, their primary mode of attack is to slash and bite the animal's rear: butt, legs, etc. Then, they literally start pulling out the intestines from inside out. Attack through the anus as it were.

Very slow death. Almost seems evil. But, from the wolves' perspective, I guess it is the lowest risk means to attack. Wolves don't know right and wrong; they are just being wolves.

I'm a Southerner and have never hunted moose or elk. I learned about this from reading a lot of Gary Paulsen books (Woodsong or Tracker maybe?) with my 9 year old twins. (His books are awesome, by the way--especially if you like Jean Craighead George My Side of the Mountain-style survival books).

Amazing post. Something like this happened to me about a month ago. My beloved Lab mix dog mauled a groundhog that wandered into her fenced yard. The groundhog was beyond saving, with an apparent broken back. I wanted to use a 12 gauge and a load of birdshot but my ******* neighbors would have called the police. I settled for 2 powerful blows to the neck with a garden shovel. The groundhog seemed to die quickly, or, maybe I was fervently hoping he would. I know I did right but it was very hard to strike the groundhog. This incident really bothers me because it poses a question: If a local crackhead breaks into my home, will I have the guts to defend my family? I love animals but depise waste of oxygen druggies and criminals.

Eloquently written and intelligent, meaningful replies.

However, one must realize that our opponents in this debate are the real predators. They are not natural, they are evil.

The lone psychos can be easily handled without the controls being forced upon us from above by far greater psychopaths craving power.

Their followers are insane. They are clamoring for young policemen to invade our homes and murder us in cold blood. They care nothing for our humanity or that of the young officers who will die with us. They can not even admit to themselves that they are demanding our murder. They are willing to surrender any and all of their rights and yours to continue their self deception. They are hyenas and jackals.

You are welcome to debate them, but never forget they are only looking for that moment of weakness, that opening for them to make their move and kill you.

This may sound harsh to those of you who live in sane parts of the country, but I am surrounded by the mental illness of modern liberalism.

I fully expect to end up in a barbecue. Since I am old and beyond the age of effective resistance, I sadly expect to be the only one roasting on that spit.

Having fished and hunted, just as a natural part of growing up in Oklahoma in the '60s, I've killed and cleaned quite a few critters I suppose, for a city boy. Nailing a catfish's head down so you can skin it is fun. As far as land animals, I have bagged and cleaned mostly rabbits, squirrels, dove, quail, a few pheasants, and a duck or two. I've killed only one deer in my hunting career, however. A doe. And I have to say that killing a large mammal was much different for me than small game. I had her in my sights for at least a minute or two before I squeezed.

Violence directed at human beings is in a whole other league. In WW-I it was called shell shock, in WW-II it was called combat fatigue, today it's called PTSD. But what the condition represents, whatever noun is used to describe it, is the psychic aftermath of having been a witness to, and sometimes of having inflicted, the violent death of human beings "up close and personal."

I feel for the law enforcement and emergency personnel who had to respond to the shooting at that elementary school. It is something they are going to have to deal with for the rest of their lives.

Quote:

Ernie Pyle

AT THE FRONT LINES IN ITALY, JANUARY 10, 1944

Capt. Waskow was a company commander in the 36th Division. He had led his company since long before it left the States. He was very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made people want to be guided by him.

"After my own father, he came next," a sergeant told me.

"He always looked after us," a soldier said. "He’d go to bat for us every time."

"I’ve never knowed him to do anything unfair," another one said.

I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Capt. Waskow’s body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made shadows in the moonlight as they walked.

Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, their heads hanging down on the left side of the mule, their stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked.

The Italian mule-skinners were afraid to walk beside dead men, so Americans had to lead the mules down that night. Even the Americans were reluctant to unlash and lift off the bodies at the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself, and ask others to help.

The first one came early in the morning. They slid him down from the mule and stood him on his feet for a moment, while they got a new grip. In the half light he might have been merely a sick man standing there, leaning on the others. Then they laid him on the ground in the shadow of the low stone wall alongside the road.

I don’t know who that first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and ashamed at being alive, and you don’t ask silly questions.

We left him there beside the road, that first one, and we all went back into the cowshed and sat on water cans or lay on the straw, waiting for the next batch of mules.

Somebody said the dead soldier had been dead for four days, and then nobody said anything more about it. We talked soldier talk for an hour or more. The dead man lay all alone outside in the shadow of the low stone wall.

Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there were some more bodies outside. We went out into the road. Four mules stood there, in the moonlight, in the road where the trail came down off the mountain. The soldiers who led them stood there waiting. "This one is Captain Waskow," one of them said quietly.

Two men unlashed his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid it in the shadow beside the low stone wall. Other men took the other bodies off. Finally there were five lying end to end in a long row, alongside the road. You don’t cover up dead men in the combat zone. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody else comes after them.

The unburdened mules moved off to their olive orchard. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually one by one I could sense them moving close to Capt. Waskow’s body. Not so much to look, I think, as to say something in finality to him, and to themselves. I stood close by and I could hear.

One soldier came and looked down, and he said out loud, "*******n it." That’s all he said, and then he walked away. Another one came. He said, "*******n it to hell anyway." He looked down for a few last moments, and then he turned and left.

Another man came; I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the half light, for all were bearded and grimy dirty. The man looked down into the dead captain’s face, and then he spoke directly to him, as though he were alive. He said:

"I’m sorry, old man."

Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer, and bent over, and he too spoke to his dead captain, not in a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said:

"I sure am sorry, sir."

Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the dead hand, and he sat there for a full five minutes, holding the dead hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face, and he never uttered a sound all the time he sat there.

And finally he put the hand down, and then reached up and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound. And then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.

***

SEPTEMBER 4, 1944

By the time you read this, the old man will be on his way back to America. After that will come a long, long rest. And after the rest, well, you never can tell.

Undoubtebly this seems to be a funny time for a fellow to be quitting the war. It is a funny time. But I'm not leaving because of a whim, or even especially because I'm homesick. I'm leaving for one reason only - because I have just got to stop. "I've had it," as they say in the Army. I have had all I can take for a while.

I've been 29 months overseas since this war started; have written about 700,000 words about it; have totalled nearly a year in the front lines.

I do hate terribly to leave right now, but I have given out. I've been immersed in it too long. My spirit is wobbly and my mind is confused. The hurt has finally become too great.

All of a sudden it seemed to me that if I heard one more shot or saw one more dead man, I would go off my nut. And if I had to write one more column, I'd collapse. So I'm on my way.

It may be that a few months of peace will restore some vim in my spirit, and I can go war-horsing off to the Pacific. We'll see what a little New Mexico sunshine does along that line.

***

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC, MARCH 15, 1945

My carrier is a proud one. She’s small, and you have never heard of her unless you have a son or husband on her, but still she’s proud, and deservedly so.

She has been at sea, without returning home, longer than any other carrier in the Pacific, with one exception. She left home in November 1943.

She is a little thing, yet her planes have shot two hundred thirty-eight of the enemy out of the sky in air battles, and her guns have knocked down five Jap planes in defending herself.

She is too proud to keep track of little ships she destroys, but she has sent to the bottom twenty-nine big Japanese ships. Her bombs and aerial torpedoes have smashed into everything from the greatest Jap battleships to the tiniest coastal schooners.

She has weathered five typhoons. Her men have not set foot on any soil bigger than a farm-sized uninhabited atoll for a solid year. They have not seen a woman, white or otherwise, for nearly ten months. In a year and a quarter out of America, she has steamed a total of one hundred forty-nine thousand miles!

Four different air squadrons have used her as their flying field, flown their allotted missions, and returned to America. But the ship’s crew stays on – and on, and on.

She is known in the fleet as "The Iron Woman," because she has fought in every battle in the Pacific in the years 1944 and 1945.

Her battle record sounds like a train-caller on the Lackawanna Railroad. Listen – Kwajalein, Eniwetok, Truk, Palau, Hollandia, Saipan, Chichi Jima, Mindanao, Luzon, Formosa, Nansei Shoto, Hong Kong, Iwo Jima, Tokyo . . . and many others.

She has known disaster. Her fliers who have perished could not be counted on both hands, yet the ratio is about as it always is – about one American lost for every ten of the Exalted Race sent to the Exalted Heaven.

She has been hit twice by Jap bombs. She has had mass burials at sea . . . with her dry-eyed crew sewing 40-mm shells to the corpses of their friends, as weights to take them to the bottom of the sea.

Yet she has never even returned to Pearl Harbor to patch her wounds. She slaps on some patches on the run, and is ready for the next battle.

***

This column was never completed. Ernie was preparing it in anticipation of the final victory in Europe, which would be proclaimed just 20 days after his death. The rough draft was found in his pocket after he was shot and killed.

ON VICTORY IN EUROPE

And so it is over. The catastrophe on one side of the world has run its course. The day that it had so long seemed would never come has come at last.

I suppose emotions here in the Pacific are the same as they were among the Allies all over the world. First a shouting of the good news with such joyous surprise that you would think the shouter himself had brought it about.

And then an unspoken sense of gigantic relief – and then a hope that the collapse in Europe would hasten the end in the Pacific.

It has been seven months since I heard my last shot in the European war. Now I am as far away from it as it is possible to get on this globe.

This is written on a little ship lying off the coast of the Island of Okinawa, just south of Japan, on the other side of the world from Ardennes.

But my heart is still in Europe, and that’s why I am writing this column.

It is to the boys who were my friends for so long. My one regret of the war is that I was not with them when it ended.

For the companionship of two and a half years of death and misery is a spouse that tolerates no divorce. Such companionship finally becomes a part of one’s soul, and it cannot be obliterated.

True, I am with American boys in the other war not yet ended, but I am old-fashioned and my sentiment runs to old things.

To me the European war is old, and the Pacific war is new.

Last summer I wrote that I hoped the end of the war could be a gigantic relief, but not an elation. In the joyousness of high spirits it is easy for us to forget the dead. Those who are gone would not wish themselves to be a millstone of gloom around our necks.

But there are many of the living who have had burned into their brains forever the unnatural sight of cold dead men scattered over the hillsides and in the ditches along the high rows of hedge throughout the world.

Dead men by mass production – in one country after another – month after month and year after year. Dead men in winter and dead men in summer.

Dead men in such familiar promiscuity that they become monotonous.

Dead men in such monstrous infinity that you come almost to hate them.

These are the things that you at home need not even try to understand. To you at home they are columns of figures, or he is a near one who went away and just didn’t come back. You didn’t see him lying so grotesque and pasty beside the gravel road in France.

We saw him, saw him by the multiple thousands. That’s the difference. . . .

***

Ernie Pyle was shot in the left side of the head and killed instantly on Ie Shima, an island off the coast of Okinawa, on April 18, 1945. The photograph below shows his body immediately afterward, laid out by the soldiers who were with him when he died.



http://bayourenaissanceman.blogspot.com/....

I carry a concealed weapon wherever I go. As a matter of fact, I do so not only to exercise my right, but I consider it my duty as a citizen of the state of Texas to do so. As a matter of fact, I had to brandish it at 3 a.m. the other morning. When the driver of a vehicle that had rap music booming from its speakers pulled up and stopped, to scope out if I were prey or not. He figured not. I earnestly pray to God that I will never have to use a weapon beyond that line, and so does everyone else who carries if they have half a brain.

As far as I am concerned, you've got to be the lowest scum on earth to exploit the murder of children for political ends. And make no mistake, when not only the laws that are being proposed but any gun restriction law that could possibly be conceived would not have prevented the carnage, that is exactly what the push for gun control in the aftermath of the Sandy Hook mass murder is.

It is a political push, pure and simple. Because, just as the Second Amendment is the cornerstone of Liberty, rendering it moot is the cornerstone that those who are erecting a Eurabian-style Nanny State in the Land of Liberty must lay if they are going to succeed. And by now it ought to be clear they will go to any lengths to succeed.

Dr. Suzanna Gratia-Hupp, who survived the mass shooting at the Lubys in Killeen, Texas in 1991, during which she lost both her parents, and who became a champion in the cause of "shall issue" concealed carry laws being passed, has boiled the political issue down to its essence, as far as I'm concerned:

Quote:

How a politician stands on the Second Amendment tells you how he or she views you as an individual. As a trustworthy and productive citizen, or as part of an unruly crowd that needs to be lorded over, controlled, supervised, and taken care of.

http://www.biblicalresearchjournal.org/b....

Yep. And if you or your loved ones become casualties at the hands of the criminal psychopaths because, when seconds counted the police were only minutes away, too bad. You represent an acceptable loss in the service of establishing their political hegemony.

It's a good idea IMHCO to keep an eye out right now, for who it is among the politicos that is pushing for gun laws, who it is that is equivocating, who it is that is compromising, who it is that is remaining silent, and who it is that is speaking up for American liberty. It will tell us a lot.

BTW, I dedicate the above post to you B.C. Thank you for your service, my friend.

Karl,
You have been writing on the topic of guns and killing and self-defense and our culture incessantly since Newtown. I find this critical and thank you for it, and also hope your words spread to other pages, blogs and kitchen table discussions. This is certainly one of the most important battles in our short history, and it could be coming to a head.

Good post
I think the hunting gene still exists in all of us
There is nothing as satisfying as killing and cooking fresh game and I have been able to teach that to many
This is especially true for blue claw crabs - probably the most delicious meat out there . Just about anyone can get hooked on the excitement of crabbing when they are running and the feast after is a real gastronomical feat

Spence, that's good stuff. Thanks.
KT

For those interested, I suggest reading a book by LTC Dave Grossman (ret.) with the same title as this thread, On Killing. It's pretty informative, and, while I don't necessarily agree with everything the LTC had to say, it's still very, very informative on the subject we're discussing and touches on many of the different points mentioned so far.

I'm sure I've killed (animals) before and just don't remember the circumstances, but those were most likely the "far away" ones KD alluded to above. The only "down and dirty, in-your-face" kill I did was a raccoon who continually screwed with my back porch, my garden, and was so nice as to spread the 4th of July garbage bags ALL OVER MY DECK in the short 90-minute time frame when we went to see the local fireworks display.

I can't say it "went wrong," but it definitely was messier that I was expecting. He was in the trap and had dug a trench - literally a trench about 4 inches deep (as far as his claws would go) around the entire thing. He was*****ed, he didn't like me, and I could tell there was no "easy fix" like taking it to another ****ing place and dropping it off. The .22 dedicated AR (which unfortunately has since been lost in a tragic canoe accident) was selected for the job, but.... well, I didn't expect to have to use *5* shots to stop the violent thrashing, blood-spraying, well - OK, maybe it DID go wrong. I felt exactly as you described Karl, and I told myself then and there when I had to do something like that again, I would do things a little differently.

And probably use a larger caliber.

A while back I briefly researched the lives of the men who flew and commanded the missions that dropped the plutonium and uranium bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. All seemed to live full lives and die of natural causes. I don't believe any are living today. And then I thought about it. Now one could argue whether the dropping of those bombs was a necessary act. And that would be suitable for some other discussion. But I often wondered how long-distanced killing differs from short-distance killing when one looks another man in the eyes and caps him, with regard to the aftermath effects on the human mind? In other words, lets say that instead of pushing a button in an airplane and dropping a bomb from 25000 feet killing a couple hundred thousand - the pilot was assigned to take an M-16 placed on full auto and cut down 30 humans in a couple burst of rounds? It would be interesting the measure the difference between the 2 separate acts insoafar as what effect both would have on the human psyche from a cognitive point of view. But I'm sure the initial psychological makeup of the ones performing the acts would be key to the aftermath effects, if any. My guess is that the close range shooting would have the larger impact on the human psyche. But, of course, the variables would be significant.

As a man with Cajun blood running through his veins I throw crawfish boils a few times each year... I always feel somewhat guilty when the time comes to drop the bugs into the boiling pot, literally snuffing out hundreds of lives all in one movement. Sometimes it goes less than smoothly, didn't use quite enough water and a few of them don't go all the way in and are struggling, requiring me to push them into the water with a spoon.

But it's the cycle of life. If I'm willing to eat meat I feel that I have to be willing to do my own killing sometimes. But I follow the philosophy of our native American brethren and say a few words of thanks before doing the deed. Hell, I even do that before putting storebought chicken roasters in the oven.

I suppose I should enjoy being at the top of the food chain while it lasts... in the next life I might not be so lucky.

I have done lots of killing. Deer, dove, quail always eaten most of them. But I can speak from also having been shot. Twice. When I was 14 I was shot by a 20 gauge shotgun while dove hunting. I was standing by a wooden apple crate that I was using as a chair. It does move you. In my case nearly 10 feet. I was hit by 128 pellets. My greatest injury was to my right eye. One pellet went completely through it and lodged in the fatty tissue between the eye and the brain. In 1967, they thought the best I could do was see night and day. Today, it is corrected to 20/60. Third documented case of such occurance that sight was retained. The next time, I was practising quickdraw with a 22 magnum. Single action, gun went off, blew end of holster out and sliver of bullet went into the calf of my right leg. In both events, there was no pain. Total numbness (similar to when a limb "falls asleep" after little activity, and the fear of the unknown of the event is the worse part. (Especially seeing blood everywhere and not fully knowing how bad you are. Now, in 10-12 hours or so you hurt like you have never hurt before (when the "shock" wears off. If one has cleaned an animal, you notice a grape jam looking substance around each point of trauma. That is what keeps you from hurting. Until it wears off.

Still advocate all 2nd amendment rights. Both times I was stupid. Not the guns fault.

Kill the bankers!

It pained me to have to put down a dog a while back.
So this is offered to any of you who may have to do something similar .

I knew from squirrel shooting that critters go down qickest and with minimal thrashing when the shot is through the lower part of brain near where it connects to brainstem. Google brain images.

If you have to put down a critter, it's kinda right behind the ear and a bit low.

A .22 is plenty adequate.

Quote:

However unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done.

Jude the Obscure; http://www.classicreader.com/book/65/10/

Piffle It would be quite interesting to see more interviews with the drone operators, who surely must approach their job as a glorified video game.<

Kid I know was a first person shooter gamer through high school. Enlisted in the Marines and did well in basic. Posted to a bunker in Iraq where he controlled drones sent to the front lines. Very matter of fact about unleashing gun fire. His parents are very much the value-free nonjudgemental caring folk who always do what is right at that moment in time. Not a lick of second thought or guilt in the kid.

The subject came up when the slaughter by drone of a wedding party in Pakistan was in the news. I wanted to know if he ever personally encountered a situation like that before he fired. Or if he had ever fired on a rescue party after the first volley. I'll guess he had.

Modern day hunting is much more sophisticated. My how we have grown. We get upset when our kids get shot up in school and then just a few years later, we send our kids off to do the killing. I am sure that sections of video where the animals are withering in pain were probably removed.

Yes, Bert. As I said before, being human is messy business. And with the dual messages it's no wonder we have so many basketcases living amongst us.