I was born into a family of hunters. Nothing too exotic, mind you. Deer and Turkey. Texas game. I remember the first time my dad took me hunting. It was cold and worse, it was cold and windy. I wanted so badly to see a deer, I was hallucinating deer. I suppose I knew I didn't really want to hunt or shoot a deer but I did want to please my dad, so deer being plentiful, it wasn't long before one wandered into my sites. The deer was a long way off. "Seventy five yards", I remember dad saying. If memory serves, I was shooting a .243. Don't kid yourself, there's plenty of take down power in a .243. I know I was taking a long time, but the deer being so far away, the temperature so low and the wind wicking what little body heat my lanky frame could muster, it seemed almost impossible to steady the cross hairs on the deer feeding unaware across the pasture. Finally, squeezing on the trigger far enough, the gun went off, bringing down the deer in my sites. What I'd done was blast the knee joints out of the deer's front legs. My dad, ordering me to stay in place, walked out to the poor animal and finished killing him.
I can remember, to this day looking at the deer and sensing his life ebbing away. Looking at his eyes, I watched them go from dark, large and shiny to gray and opaque in a matter of minutes. I didn't enjoy that little experience, at all.
Deer hunters provide a service, they really do. Without deer hunters, the deer population would multiply like rabbits. As for myself though, I'd rather not.