For the first time in years, I didn’t do the “opening”

In this general opening, we wanted to relay this writing which allows “also” to put the church back a little in the middle of the village. This hunter disgusted with the attacks, with the state of mind of the anti, but who finally got the better of him since they made him put down the gun. Let’s keep fighting for our passion and our traditions.

“For the first time in years, I didn’t do the ‘opening’ and I didn’t even take out a hunting permit… My old gun remained tidily stored in the armored cupboard. Next to those of my poor father and my grandfather Eugene. Yet, from a young age, it was always a long-awaited moment. A bit like what we can discover in “My Father’s Glory” with Marcel Pagnol…I was part of the tradition of my father, my grandfather and those who had preceded them. I have never perceived myself as a stupid and unreasonable predator.

A hare, a few thrushes… from time to time a wild boar or even a deer and that was enough for us. We didn’t have the impression of attacking the balance of the Earth. But times have changed. The heirs of an essentially rural society have become city dwellers. Little by little, they broke all the ties that held them close to their true roots. They now maintain a clientelist relationship with Nature. They demand that it belong to “everyone”, thus disregarding the right to property.

Because the patous bother them on their hikes, they have come to hate the shepherds, calling them lazy and alcoholic. They ignore (voluntarily or not) the fact that the shepherds have rented entire mountains for the summer pastures and that they are at home there. Professionals forced to get help from big dogs that are not always friendly, simply because animal lovers prefer wolves to lambs.

The death of a wolf puts them in a trance, the slow agony of thousands of sheep does not affect them since it is necessarily the shepherd who, according to them, is not doing his job. Too busy he is playing cards while drinking pastis, according to the greenish or vegan ayatollahs. And this targeted detestation that emanates from the new “owners” of nature (or who claim to be such) has inevitably drifted towards hunters. They are the target of attacks below the belt, the uprooted townspeople drag them through the mud because they do not understand the rules and customs of the hunt.

The slightest hunting accident unleashes in them stupid and aggressive vociferations. The most stupid of them even come to wish that the hunters shoot each other. They have no limits, no awareness of the seriousness of what they write on social networks. And they never attack feminicides or speeders. They obviously have selective outrage…

And so, I’m tired of being called a bloodthirsty psychopath, a “badger with a small dick” (sic), an alcoholic and uneducated… I no longer support the dictatorship of the “friends of animals” which yet don’t hesitate to eat a deer for the end-of-year celebrations. I’m fed up with those who insult me ​​while stealing my cherries or my morels. I loathe these twisted who ignore the right to hunt itself linked to the right of property for centuries.

And the worst, you see? It is that, among friends that I esteem, some are now totally in this movement. With them, the insult gives way to a dubious humor but the criticisms are very present. They’re so close to calling me abnormal for hunting. Hate is a little polished with them but we feel it is present. They must imagine me with two grams in my blood ready to shoot a mountain biker, a walker or a mushroom picker.

Anything outrageous is ridiculous, but they don’t seem to notice. They have carefully fenced off their little garden so that no one comes to bother them at home, but they claim to forbid hunting to those who hunt on their properties or those of their friends. The paradox does not scare them. Are they even aware of it? »

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