Trophy Hunter

 Trophy Hunter

There I was on the Kenyan Savannah, a .375 Ruger in my hands and a black rhino in my sights.  One trigger pull and I’d have a trophy larger than my jeep.  But wait, I thought, aren’t black rhinos endangered?  Wouldn’t it be wrong to kill such a magnificent beast?  Where could I hang its head?  It wouldn’t fit over our mantel, and it would clash with our modern furnishings.  Plus, my daughter would never speak to me again.  She didn’t speak to me for a week after I ran over a squirrel.  I lowered my rifle.  No black rhino for me today.

I set my sights on a cheetah, the fastest land animal.  So fast, such a difficult target, that an amateur trophy hunter like me would never be able to hit it, not with a hundred bullets.  But this cheetah was deep asleep after devouring a gazelle.  Easy pickings.  I put my crosshairs between her eyes, but hesitated.  My daughter loves cats.  I could never display a cheetah at home, or put its photo on the wall, or ever speak of it to anyone but another hunter.  But I know no other hunters. What’s the use of killing a cheetah and keeping it secret?  I lowered my rifle and looked around for an animal I could kill in good conscience.

A hyena came into sight.  People hate hyenas.  They’re despised in the Lion King.  Maybe my daughter would be proud of me if I said I killed it to save the Jungle Boy.  But once again I couldn’t squeeze off a round.  The hyena looked like my first dog, Scout. Scout was my best friend, my only friend, for all his short life.  I lowered my sights from the hyena, frozen by childhood memories, unable to pull the trigger.  Maybe I would never find an animal I could kill in good conscience.

My safari guide, tired of waiting, jumped out of the jeep and yelled in my ear “Shoot, damn it, shoot.  Shoot anything that moves!”  At long last I’d found an animal that I could shoot in good conscience.