The recent poaching of Cecil, the lion murdered by a trophy hunter, as well as countless other reports of majestic animals being killed for sport, stirs my emotions. I respect true hunters, but I find it incomprehensible that a trophy hunter could find pleasure or satisfaction in killing a majestic animal.  How does one come to believe an animal’s presence on one’s wall is of greater value than an animal’s beauty in nature?

I grew up in a small farming community in southwestern Illinois, where hunting – primarily for rabbit, quail, and deer, was a common and traditional practice. Hunters’ families ate what they shot. My dad hunted a bit, but only rabbits. My own experience with “hunting” as a young girl formed the attitudes I embrace today. Although this incident happened over 40 years ago, placing myself there is effortless.

I’m holding my younger brother’s BB gun as I gingerly step onto the dirt/rock road lane bordering our old farmhouse. I settle upon patches of gray dust, warm and silky beneath my bare feet. The bridal wreath spirea bush across the lane is in full bloom; white, delicately scented blossoms cascade down long arching branches. I plant my feet, cocking the handle of the gun as quietly as possible, being careful not to pinch my fingers. I raise the gun, tilting my head to the right, using the sight to steady my aim on the small sparrow, sitting on the electrical wire – six, maybe eight feet above me. Slowly, I pull the trigger.

My shot is dead on. Wide-eyed, I watch the sparrow fall backwards off the wire – straight down…no sound, no flutter, nothing … its small, brown body lands softly on the dirt road, a few feet in front of me. Within seconds, a barn cat claims the sparrow as its prey. I stand there, mouth agape, shocked into silence. I am mortified. I was only playing; I can’t believe I killed that bird. Thoughts rush through my head … what have I done? What was I thinking? The gravity of my action reverberates through every cell in my body, a heaviness descends upon me … I am suddenly aware, through and through – what I did was wrong. Who was I to take that bird’s life? I killed that bird for no good reason. Befuddled, I hurry back into the house, returning the BB gun to my brother’s closet.

Thinking back, I can still tap into the overwhelming sense of weight and injustice I felt after killing that sparrow. My skewed sense of adventure caused that bird’s death. And yes, it was a common sparrow – regardless, the timing of its death should not have been my choice.

My 12 year-old self, newly imbued with a personal truth, would tell you emphatically, unequivocally – killing an animal for sport is wrong…for the animal as well as the human. I think killing an animal imparts an emotional toll on the hunter.

I believe all of life is connected. Trophy hunting has no place in a humane society, or in a society striving to become so. Even a 12 year-old can tell you that.