All jokes aside about the month of breakfasts given in our honor, hunting season just makes me sad. Poor Lucy has to wear the silly collar. The goats have to stay in the near paddock, and can’t roam the woods. I don’t feel safe driving the backroads. And I worry about Mrs. Deer, who lives just on the other side of the goat’s fence in the corner of the field. Every summer she appears with her annual twin fawns. But for all that, I’m glad I live where people can still hunt if they want, and harvest the surplus of the woods. People who hunt understand that in order to eat meat, a life must be taken, and at least these lives have been full and free.
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