I live with hunters. They love to hunt. I see them in the field searching for game with amazing intensity. Every part of their body communicates their concentration and anticipation. Sometimes they come home covered in blood—that pink stain on their faces and bodies. They sleep in my bed. I think that they dream about hunting. Their legs churn and they quietly bark in their slumbers. I love them dearly.

My dogs kill baby rabbits. I hear the rabbits’ screams and see them writhing in the canine jaws. I find it deeply disturbing. My dogs hunt out the fuzzy rabbit nests with glee, trotting off with the babies as their teeth pierce the delicate sides. Rescue is impossible. When possible, I take the young rabbits and quickly dispatch them. If the rabbit is large enough, I will clean and cook it for my wife and me to eat. I always share the cooked bits with my hunters.

My dogs love the chase. They’ll chase rabbits in the fields, rabbits in the woods, rabbits anywhere. When they catch a rabbit both dogs are simultaneously proud and ashamed, and they frequently bring the captured adults to me if I am outside. If I am not around, they will lay down, hold the carcass with their front paws and tear the meat from the body. As for the little ones, they tend to crunch them on the spot.

I have tried several methods of behavior modification, but none have been effective. When I go to work, my dogs spend the days outside wandering our acreage and that of our neighbors. My dogs are not deprived—they get an unlimited amount of food every day and they are regularly fed meat, whether commercially prepared or wild game that I carefully cook for them. They are small dogs, well-behaved, and loved by children and adults alike.

They love to hunt. But I always pity the animals that they hunt, kill, and eat.

I am an American hunter. I have at my disposal an unlimited amount of food for my consumption. Food comes in containers; meat comes in plastic; the animals are killed by professional killers in slaughterhouses. The animals whose fate is slaughter were bred for my consumption and fed behind fences and in corrals.

Yes, I enjoy the chase. There is something about the pursuit, something about the kill—as disturbing as that might sound—and, yes, the death of my prey is nearly as disturbing to me as the death of those baby rabbits. The distinction between my predatory behavior and that of my canine companions is that I do it knowingly, with judgment, with reflection, with intention, and with an ethic. For some my actions might be that of the depraved, of one not fully evolved to the progressive ideal of the present. Yet, for others my intentional pursuit of an animal that is not confined, my pursuit of an ethical, quick, and “humane death” of the free prey, and my thankful preparation and consumption of that animal is behavior congruent with being both human a member of good creation.

As a human hunter, I recognize the pathos of the captured animal, the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of the kill, and the deliciousness of the meat of the prey that I have captured. I understand why some are horrified by the chase, the kill, and the reality of bloody death. I feel pity for the prey. Every time. I am prey. We all are. Yet, I am a hunter. An intentional hunter. A rational, religious, and reflective human hunter. These are my reflections on the chase, the hunt, the life and plight of the prey animal, and the life of the hunter. It is a life of pity, joy, fulfillment, regret, life, and death.