ARTICLES
Me and Etyx Etix ETHICS
by A. Nonnymous and Pat Pending

Well, to write about ethics, I figured I needed to first figure out how to spell it, then find a general definition in old Webster’s know it all. I started trying to spell it using logic. Since everybody avoids discussing it, everyone looks at you funny if you mention it, and politicians disappear when it is mentioned, this word can’t be socially acceptable; therefore, it must be a four-letter word. While looking in the dictionary for etyx or etix, I accidentally stumbled on ethic and found the following definition in part: A principle of right or good conduct, or a body of such principles; the moral quality of a course of action.
Armed with this and other ideas accumulated over the past 50 or so years, I tried to look at my hunting ethics. One thing for sure, I wanted to look at them—I did not want anyone else looking at them and telling me what my ethics should be. (Thank heavens, hunting is by and large a solitary sport.)
I figured I should start at the beginning.

I started my hunting career as a bird hunter. I hunted every kind of bird imaginable—sparrows, blackbirds, crows, blue jays. A pretty wide variety for a 5-6 year old with a Daisy B-B gun. This is where I reckon my ethics got started. I noticed that if I shot these birds in the south, east or west ends, they did a lot of flopping and squawking before they expired (socially acceptable word for died). I also noticed that if I hit them in the north end (head), which I occasionally accidentally did, they simply dropped to the ground with no fanfare. I felt much better with this result than the other three shot placements.

From this, I have decided that part of ethics must be to kill an animal cleanly. By the way, as I chased these previously mentioned birds, I had to abide by the law of the land. It was Mother’s land and she WAS the law. One rule was no bluebirds, no cardinals, especially no mockingbirds. (This last one was a little pesky since I’d had a run-in with a mockingbird while trying to look at her freshly hatched babies.) Ouch! Anyway, one day I was stalking along the creek, just me and my number one tracker Queenie, a retired beagle rabbit dog, when a beautiful cardinal darted from the brush and landed on a nearby rock. I was by myself—why not. I took aim and shot. I did not hit the north end, but I did connect. Queenie went into immediate action. Within minutes, we had tracked the cardinal down and finished the little critter off. I looked around to see if, somehow, Mother might be standing behind me. She wasn’t. Why did I feel so guilty and displeased with myself. Could it be the poor shot placement or was it the forbidden animal. I think it was a combination of both. I was not pleased or happy with myself. Queenie still liked me. She snarfed the cardinal and was ready to find another, but I just couldn’t go along. I guess I learned that certain animals were acceptable and others off limits.

As mentioned, one of my quarry was the crow. These pesky birds bothered just about everything. They ate seeds from the garden, fruit from the trees (especially pecans and I love pecan pie), and any cow feed they could get at. As you might have guessed, one cannot kill a crow with a B-B gun by east, west or south shot placement. It had to be north or no dice. (I didn’t kill many.) Being around a farm, we had gopher rats (much like a possum but with another name). To eliminate these dirty beasts, my father set traps that were wired to something solid to prevent the loss of a trap should a true monster appear.

One day while plains hunting (fields around the barn), I heard a rather loud commotion and saw much dust and other stuff being whipped into the air. Being a fearless hunter, I went to investigate. There caught in one of the giant grizzly gopher traps was a crow. The trap had the crow solidly by the leg. Ah-ha, now I had the sucker. All I had to do was zap it with a north shot. I was probably 6 when this happened and had started to develop an ego-o (another four-letter word). I had four brothers and I would be able to strut up to Daddy and show him I was the better hunter because I had gotten the crow with a north shot.

My brothers would be envious and Daddy would be proud of me. I fired my Daisy missing several times to make the crow think he had a chance. The trap and wire held. I finally got him behind the eye. He succumbed (another socially acceptable word for died). I got the crow out of the trap and was ready when Daddy got home from work. I pranced up holding the crow, hiding his trap-injured leg and showed him to Daddy. Being a good Father, he wanted to know about the hunt. Uh-oh! Well, Daddy never said much about the crow and I never felt worse, not even with the cardinal. I learned that my quarry had to have a fair chance of getting away.

Looking back at these few memories, I conclude that I have developed my own ethics. I have added to and modified them as I have matured, accumulated more experience, read and talked to other hunters I respect and disrespect.

My short list of ethics starts like this:
1. The quarry must be harvested (another tricky word for killed) as cleanly and humanely as possible.
2. The prey must be legal and hunted with morally acceptable methods.
3. The game must be hunted under fair chase conditions and must be in an environment where it can depart or not show up at all if that is its nature.
4. We must hunt for recreation and food and not be governed by our egos and how high the animal goes in the book. Pride is good and an accurate record book is a good yardstick of trophy size but neither is the ultimate judge of the trophy. That comes from within and is determined by the total process of the hunt.

These are just a few of my ideas for me. I am sure each person has his own set of ethics. We probably should especially remember two things as we constantly fight for hunters’ rights.
#1. Our ethics need to be acceptable for the majority of the voting public, both hunter and non-hunter.
And #2. Don’t let Mama catch you if it ain’t done right!