Sunday, February 20, 2005

PG: Fox Hunting: are we being two faced?

My father was a hunter. He used to say: when i shoot an animal, people will boo me. Then a bug harrasses them and they kill it without a blink of the eye.

My father was a man who loved nature more than anything. Thats where his life was, that is where he died. I was one of the first people to find him at the place of death. It was late in the evening and he probably died early afternoon. It was out in the open, next to a clay pigeon shooting terrain.

When i was a child, so many times he let me accompany him on the hunt. And so many times i stood next to him as we saw the animal being shot by this hunter who was my dad. He loved to hunt, though i knew he felt hunting is not a blessing. Strange as it is, he could not stand animals in pain. This man, my dad, was lying there in the field, far away from any road. It really struck me to see him lying there, like i had seen dead creatures so many times.

My father wasn´t ill, he just missed my mum who passed away six months earlier. And just as i am writing this, a bird flies into my house. I know her, she comes to my garden every morning when i throw a slice of bread for her and her partner. She goes straight to the other side of the room, wants to escape through the window. But she can't. I think its great she visits me, but the bird is not giving up, not at ease. I see how she's hurting herself against the window, flying up and down. I catch her and let her out. There she goes.

No need to paint her. No need to paint any animal actually. No need to paint my dad, or any fellow human, nor his actions.

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