Up in Michigan the men go hunting every fall, and my father is one of them. Some of his buddies are particularly enthusiastic about deer hunting, but my father prefers to hunt birds. And for that you really need a dog. It’s possible to hunt birds without a dog, but few hunters would consider that much fun. The dog is important because not only can it find the birds but its companionship and enthusiasm are a large part of what makes the hunt meaningful for the hunter. My father has always had dogs around his house but seldom in it–he relates to them less as pets than as livestock. His affection for a given dog pretty much depends on how well it works the birds. Like many hunters, he tends to buy and sell dogs, always searching for one with a better nose and field performance. As a kid, I learned not to let myself grow too attached to any particular one.
I never caught the hunting bug, but I did develop a lasting fondness for many aspects of the ritual: the smell of a cornfield in late autumn with the dew rising from the brush in early morning, the rustle of a good dog nosing her way through the brush in pursuit of a bird’s scent, the sudden explosion of a pheasant taking to the sky. I now like nearly everything about bird hunting except for the part where the lead pellets enter the bird’s body. On occasion I even enjoy the taste of wild pheasant and quail, though I’d rather not think about how the bird made its journey from the sky to the end of my fork.
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While I never became a hunter–I spurned all of my father’s attempts to take me on a hunting trip–I often find myself defending the sport when it’s attacked by my city friends. Hunters are stereotyped as beer-drunk ignoramuses ready to shoot anything that moves. Of course, some hunters are really like that, but the ones I know are all good people who operate in accordance with a strict and almost courtly moral code. I’ve watched hunters approach the killing of game with a sobriety that clearly acknowledges the sacredness in nature’s order and the gravity inherent in its harsh laws. Few of my vegetarian friends seem to know nearly as much about animals and their lives in the wild.
“I don’t care what their hobby is,” she said of hunters. “Let them keep their guns at the shooting range.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
I knew I’d never come to a conclusion about the morality of hunting until I had gone on a trip myself and seen it with my own eyes. I didn’t want to criticize something I didn’t understand, and discussing it with other people only left me frustrated. So when my father and his friend Jack invited me to join them in killing a few consciousnesses up in rural Michigan, I accepted.
“Why not?” I asked. “Could it be that your contact with nature only puts you more closely in touch with your own natural, hormonal, aggressive impulses?”
