I didn’t expect to find much, it’s true, but I did find an old pair of woolly socks I hadn’t worn for years. They had a pattern or a picture or a design on the side that looked like antlers or a menorah, it was sort of blurry because the socks were so old and worn out and woolly. Anyway, I couldn’t make out the motif very clearly, certainly not clearly enough for me to actually feel comfortable wearing them in public.
I wouldn’t want to give offence, for a start. And I wouldn’t want anyone to leap to conclusions. “Oh, so he’s a big game hunter, now, is he?”, I expected people would mutter, as they saw the deer’s horns on the side of my ankles – a trophy of my exploits.
How could I defend the actions of the hunter, the murderer. He who moves in for the kill, he who occupies the territory of others and claims it as his own because he is stronger, richer, more powerful.
Atrocities upon atrocities, year after year, while the world looks the other way. The whole place has become a hunting ground. Desolation and misery.
The hunter has the right to defend himself, they keep saying. “Those animals started it”, they even dare to say. So they turn the place into an abattoir.
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