Of Shoes and Ships and Taxidermy

I’ll confess, the title is misleading.  This post isn’t really about shoes or ships at all (although those might be more pleasant topics).  I’m just--as ever--in an Alice frame of mind.

Our inspiration for the day comes from this Youtube video: 


Super amazing, ja?  Even more amazing was the deep, philosophical conversation that was sparked after my husband, B, insisted we watch the original commercial.  (It’s really worth a watch as a great and incredibly disturbing bit of advertising.  What is he doing in that lady’s bedroom?  It’s so Cullen-esque.  I worry for her.)  What really caught my attention was the notice at the end of the advert that our heroic and apparently intrepid taxidermist does not stuff and mount household pets.

Me:  He doesn’t taxidermize pets?

B:  Of course not.  That would be weird.

Me:  But it’s not weird at all to memorialize an animal you’ve shot and eaten by sewing its bits back together.  That’s perfectly acceptable.

B:  It’s for decoration.  Wild animals are beautiful, and some people like the look of them.

Me:  Yet stuffing Fluffy is crossing a line.

B:  Most definitely.  Would you want to walk into your living room to see your dead cat staring at you from across the room?

Me:  No.  I would want to walk into my living room and see the animal whom I have shot and of whose meaty haunches I have partaken glaring at me accusingly from above the fire place.

B:  Dead animals are so judgy.

Me:  Now that I think of it, do you know who else would make a souvenir out of the flesh of their murder victims?

B:  Oh no.  This is going to be bad, isn’t it?

Me:  Serial killers--that’s who.

B:  (Sigh)  Not this again.  Jess, hunting and serial murdering are not even nearly the same thing.

Au contraire, good sir.  I have good reason to believe that hunters and murderers are akin to kissing cousins.  Believe me, I have argued this point, wielding wit and logic with deft precision, but B has thus far remained unmoved.  Sometimes, despite his brilliance, his inability to admit the rightness of my positions disappoints me.  So I make my case to the internet at large.


First of all, you should know that I am not even nearly a vegetarian.  I especially enjoy the taste of cow.  Does this make me a hypocrite?  Not remotely.  Because I don’t argue that hunting is wrong.  Heck, it may even be right.  I completely believe that animals in the wild lead happier and more fulfilling animal lives than livestock living in stalls and pens.  Is it wrong for us to eat our fellow creatures?  Nay, sir.  No more wrong than it is for a lion to eat a zebra or a wolf to eat a jackrabbit.  That’s what canine teeth are for.  This, as I understand it, is all part of the circle of life, and I’m pretty sure Disney wouldn’t lie.


So to summarize: Sustainably hunting animals in their natural habitats and killing them for food is morally acceptable.  And also, depending on the skill of the cook, quite possibly delicious.

My contention is merely that people who hunt animals for fun are creepy.  I’m not saying they’re eeevil or villainous or anything crazy like that.  I’m just saying they’re probably mildly sociopathic.  


Think about it, and the truth of my statement will become ever so clear to you.  When I want to have fun of a Saturday afternoon, I go to a movie or I go shopping.  Or I read a book and have a clever conversation with myself in a remote corner of my house.  What I do not do is decide to stalk and kill fluffy critters for kicks and giggles.  It is one thing to kill an animal because you really want to eat it; it is quite another to kill Bambi because you find murdering motherless deer to be a diverting pasttime.  I think it’s fine to hunt out of necessity and with respect for your prey, but to take life gleefully because you think it’s fun is likely a sign of some sort of mental disorder.  (No, I am not a psychiatrist, but I do have a nasty habit of being nearly always at least ambiguously correct about most things.  Just ask my dog.  I raised him so he is likewise very bright.)


Now, B vehemently disagrees with me (because he enjoys being wrong).  He says my femaleness blinds me to the manly sense of...erm, manliness (?) that is to be found amid the wild foliage as one tracks and shoots a beast of the field and drags it home to be roasted upon a spit.  (Please note that B’s impassioned love for the sport of hunting is made up entirely of romantic speculation, as he has never hunted in his life.)  This need for adventure and the thrill of grappling with nature is something B feels my nurturing, non-violent uterus makes it difficult for me to understand.  (Okay, that may not be what he actually said, but that is nonetheless what I heard.)


And maybe so.  I never considered maleness to be a social aberration, but I am certainly open to the idea.  (I kid!  I kid!  Mostly.)  The way I see it--if you want to be in the wild, go camping.  Or maybe bird watching.  If shooting at stuff floats your boat, shoot at targets that don’t bleed.  Because if making live bunnies be dead and causing fowl to fall from the sky is the only thing that will satisfy your requirements for good times, that’s...a lack of empathy that I simply do not understand.  Like I said, hunting may be necessary, and it may even be good, but it’s still sort of sad, don’t you think?  Or is that just me and my uterus talking?  Is it weird that I think killing things shouldn’t be anyone’s idea of fun?  Cuz if I’m wrong, I don’t think I want to be right.

This post has been approved by Chaucer Bear.  He entreats any reader who is considering stuffing and mounting their beloved pet and/or dinner to reconsider.  Corpses =/= decoration.  Just say no.