Over a hearty brunch at Murray Street Kitchen in Ottawa – the only kind of brunch you can have at Murray Street – the Mister, Dave, Isla, Stu, & Jenny discussed hunting. Henry, our Springer Spaniel, is two this year and, the Mister is determined he will hunt. (I harbour a belief that it’s out of a deep desire to be able to shout YES! when men enthusiastically shout at us, “does that dog hunt?!”) I was surprised to learn that out friend Isla – along with the gentlemen – was willing to learn to hunt, though she admitted it begins with learning how to shoot and then she’ll see where it goes from there.
I think I could hunt. My food-on-the-plate ethics have moved toward moderate meat consumption and consternation over how all the food landed there, kale and venison inclusive. I’m actually much more comfortable with game than farm raised animals, because wild game likely had a better life until death. This is not an open embrace of the sport, but a contextual tailoring that I’m comfortable with – if you couldn’t kill it yourself, isn’t it hypocritical to eat it? Not to mention, there are some fantastic hunting outfits.
It’s the trophy mounting I’m waffling on, which for the Mister has more to do with the decor preference than any need to showcase his hunting skills. In the world of decor it’s easier to find yourself a white sculpture motif, a curious obsession with heritage decor and fashion considering most city dwellers have likely never fired a gun, let alone a rifle.
The Mister thinks a deer head would look perfect above his beautiful harvest table, and I’m concerned I’ll see my doubts on animal consumption mirrored back at me in its faux taxidermied eyes. Perhaps I’ll just make us a moose head?