I just finished reading Tovar Cerulli’s The Mindful Carnivore. To be blunt, I wish that he hadn’t written it. It isn’t that I didn’t find the topics enjoyable; I did. It isn’t that he isn’t a good writer; he’s good. The reason I wish that Cerulli hadn’t written his book is because I wanted to write his book. And it’s almost as if I did.
So, I’m a hunter—and that means I’m a killer. I end the lives of wild animals to consume them. For a human, being a killer is a pretty common thing to be, at least from a historical standpoint. But, today killing—especially direct killing—seems to arouse a host of emotional reactions in people. Some find it admirable that I kill and consume my own food. Some seem to find it a little distasteful, though being too polite, they’ll never really communicate this distaste. And some others are quite extreme and open in their disapproval: the willingly chosen blood on my hands causes them to respond with vitriol, to disparage the act of direct killing and those who take part in it—namely me.
But when I kill, I do it for a purpose. I kill because it is a more ethical way to live. As contradictory as that may sound on the face of it, it’s true.