My Christmas dinner was up in one of those trees. It was snowing lightly on a minus-two-degree dawn, and I was lying on my belly bundled in white camo, pointing the muzzle of a Benelli 12-gauge through a cluster of fireweed.
The cold hurt my hands in a way I wondered if I should worry about. In front of me, a snow-coated field stretched for 500 yards to a line of bare trees silhouetted against a blush of sunrise. The trees’ branches were dotted with roosting turkeys, and their occasional gobbles carried back across the field to where I waited, breathing into my face mask.
Next to me, rising on his knees to better see the birds, was Brent Lawrence, a friend who worked for the National Wild Turkey Federation, a nonprofit conservation group. We were hunting together outside the town of Kearney, Nebraska, for three days in December — one of which had already passed.
Now he tapped my shoulder and pointed: The dots had started flapping to the ground, and single-file lines of birds were bobbing into the field, their chatter echoing in the cold air. I took a deep breath and adjusted my grip on the gun.
I’d started hunting a few years before, shocking everyone who knew me…My reformative logic went like this: For every turkey wrap or club sandwich I’d ever eaten, something had been killed for my benefit — I’d just never done the killing myself. The deer hunt invitation seemed an opportunity, a challenge even, to reclaim my place in the food chain by assuming responsibility for the meat on my plate…
Gradually the turkeys spread out, and one wandered a little closer to us. It pecked at the ground, then raised its head and stood perfectly still for one moment. I squeezed the trigger.
The blast of the gun is always a bit of a surprise — more like something that happens to me than something I initiate. All at once, my ears were ringing, the turkey was thrashing in the snow, and Brent and I were racing down the hill toward it.
“Don’t worry; it’s dead,” he shouted. Though its wings were flapping, its head was limp on the ground. I wanted to look away but didn’t — this was part of my responsibility.
RTFA. Read the whole article.
I think anyone who’s hunted has wandered through the same maze of ethic and emotion. This is a serious piece of existential reflection whether you hunt or not, eat like a typical omnivore or restrictive vegan.
Enjoyable writing and reading from someone worth reading.
Eideard 
…hmnnn just because you kill something and then eat it does not make you responsible for what you are eating…..you are just attempting to have a logical justification for killing…..I am a vegitarian by the way because the idea of eating dead animals is just gross to me……
For every turkey wrap or club sandwich I’d ever eaten, something had been killed for my benefit — I’d just never done the killing myself.
For me, this sums up the matter. If you do the hunting, at least you have the benefit of knowing that the animal lived a normal life.. up to the point that you stuck your big nose in, anyway.
As an animal lover, I am aware, all the time, of the conflict– maybe irreconcilable– between my love of animals and my taste for meat. But I stop short, way short, of apologizing for my biology. I didn’t make me. It’s hard to argue that it is unnatural to eat meat.
Though.. as Ivonne points out.. there are alternatives. Those of us who perceive a conflict should at least think about it.
How about AFTER I go out for some chicken?
This hypocrite is an evil, blood-thirsty ghoul. You cannot be an “animal lover” and hunt. I hope she chokes on her meal.
If she’d substitute her prey for her children’s names, she might have a clue about how wrong what she’s done is. Otherwise, she’s just too stupid to understand love of animals.
At least Kim knows a good turkey when she sees one.
As do I.