The Chaff

Saturday, December 18th, 2004

The Ultimate Sacrilege

Here in Texas, an enterprising rancher name John Underwood has set up a web site where you can sit at your computer, watch a webcam with a different kind of um..”doe” in it, and then…click a button to shoot a remote controlled gun! That’s right, boys and girls, you can now go hunting—killing live animals—over the Internets!

I’m sorry. No.

Hunting is not a video game. It’s the ultimate expression of the reality of life: All living things feed on some other thing to survive, from predators on prey to prey on plants to plants on decaying predators, in an interconnected spiral stretching back to the first microbe in the primordial soup feeding off the nutrient-rich slime that birthed it. To hunt—to take up arms and kill your food yourself—is to acknowledge the karmic dept of our species, to shoulder that debt for the sake of your tribe. Is it any wonder that hunting most likely spawned religion in the misty-grey pre-dawn of history? Hunting is a sacred ritual older than humanity itself.

You want to hunt? Fine. Then do it right. Strip off all trappings of modernity, all semblance of humanity, and run over the savannah, with the grass burrs scratching at your naked thighs, the sharp pebbles tearing at your naked feet. With no light but the silver glow of the three-quarters moon, try to spot a rabbit in the brush; watch his nose test the winds, and give thanks to your moon goddess that you are on the downward side of it. Charge him as he bolts, your legs pumping, your heart pounding, your over-developed mind racing. Anticipate his next turn and cut him off; lunge forward and seize him by the hind leg. Ignore his scratching and struggling, listen to his death scream as your teeth sink deep into his throat. Then raise his still-twitching body above your head and feel his warm wet blood pour over your face and howl your triumph to the blossoming jewel of the night.

Or if that’s a little too intense for you, you can take the skins of past kills and tie them around your feet to protect them from the icy tundra, wrapping another around your shoulders to keep out the cold wind of the Steppes. Feel the comforting heft of the spruce spear in your hand (an extension of your own phallus, really) ripped from the strongest tree you could find and lovingly scraped to a fine point with the sharpest rock you could find. Grunt directions to your brothers and cousins as your small band tries to surround the young mammoth your son the scout saw over this next hill. One of your clan will probably be hurt this day, a new scar to add to your impressive collection. One might even be killed, but you chase that possibility from your mind as you creep up the side of the hill. Your spears will strike true, the mammoth will fall, and you will drag the carcass back to your women to feed your family through the winter. And the women will be so proud, so happy, so eager to mate with the strongest leader… You grin and give the signal.

Maybe if the group thing isn’t your style, you can strap your suede leggings tightly against your moccasins so their rustling doesn’t give warning to your prey, nock an arrow in your bow and slip soundlessly through the woods. Ask Wahiya to make you one with the shadows of the trees, with the near-silent stirrings of the breeze. Slide through the forest like the ghost of Wahiya White Wolf, fixed unerringly on the spoor of the deer. Track it for hours, even days, if you must, knowing it must come down this path again eventually, as inevitably as death calls all men back to the White Wolf Places. Spot it there, across the clearing, its head bent to the budding spring grass. Raise your bow and draw the string. Open your fingers, turning your bow hand so the now-empty string lands in the thick fur wrapped around your wrist, muffling the tell-tale twang that would give your prey warning. The deer’s head snaps up, too late, too late, your arrow is away, and the animal turns to flee even as the sharp flint head strikes home.

That’s how you hunt. You do not, I repeat do not, pop open a can of Keystone Light and a bag of Cheetos, maneuver your ample backside into the too-tight, well-worn chair, reach for our slightly sticky, orange-stained mouse, and click away in fond remembrance of Space Invaders past.

If you want the unforgettable experience of blowing away animals with your (ahem) “pointing device,” try Hamster Blast.

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 18th, 2004 at 8:33 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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