It’s been a weird year for weather. Irrigators who haven’t been careful with what they wished for have had their biggest watery dreams overflow. “We need the rain” quickly morphed into “... but not that f..king much!”.
Still, there is one tiny group of Australians that has risked drowning not in floodwaters but in its own salivations as each new wave of rain fuels mounting excitement: the nation’s duck shooters.
Ducks love water and rain acts like an aphrodisiac to shooters. They are probably hard at it right now on a small patch of water near you. For people with a modicum of compassion, this brings the joy of ducklings, but duck shooters have other plans.
Yes, indeed. There are still a few states in Australia that allow grown men with big guns and rambo fashion accessories to pit six million years of evolved human intelligence against something like a 600 gram grey teal with a brain like a peanut.
In pursuit of wily avian prey, shooters camouflage canoes and punts, cunningly sculpt decoys and fashion duck whistles. But the primary tool is the shotgun. Not a rifle which fires a single bullet, but a shotgun.
It works like this. A shotgun fires a cluster of 120 to 200 pellets which spreads into a cloud about a metre in diameter. The word ‘pellet’ is unfortunate. Each pellet can have a diameter like a roofing nail and being hit is like being shot with a nail gun. Try it! Through the palms and hanging on a cross will give you an idea of the pain.
It’s actually tough to hit a flying duck ... even with a one metre pellet cloud, and the random distribution of the pellets in the cloud makes it a lottery how many pellets actually hit the duck. Often none, but maybe a pellet in the guts or the leg or the beak. Or maybe three or four and the duck will fold up and fall from the sky in a tangled lumpy terrified mess.
But that’s only the start of the fun for a duck shooter. Generally, even after a multiple pellet hit, these poor disabled creatures aren’t dead. The shooter still has the personal satisfaction of killing them by wringing their necks with his (or occasionally her) bare hands.
And if the duck doesn’t fall from the sky but flies on? Who knows. Ducks with a single pellet in the guts won’t stop for a chat and the shooter may truly think they missed.
Of course, duck shooters are a tiny minority. Why did I say “of course”?
Because if even a modest number of people regularly ate ducks, there would be no ducks. Ditto kangaroos, tigers, bison, whales or any other wild animal you care to think of.
At the peak of duck open season in NSW during the 1990s, before compassion prevailed, shooters shot a quarter of a million ducks each year. Does that sound a lot? Think about it. Each duck is much smaller than a broiler chicken and Australians consume 1.25 million of those ... every single day! Sure, ducks are prolific breeders when its wet, but their productivity is dismal compared to factory farms.
Wildlife as food is intrinsically unproductive and therefore unsustainable except as a bouquet cruelty for jaded palates. This fundamental fact was a significant driving force behind the domestication of animals and the invention of farming. But anything is sustainable when hardly anybody does it, so shooters pretend to be conservationists engaged in “wild harvesting” food.
They pretend that their meat is somehow green because they have freshly bloodied hands. They pretend that crippling or killing the animal yourself says something about the righteousness of the activity when all it really says is that that you are a thug but not a hypocrite.
Shooters ignore or actively tell lies about the cripples that escape and die a dismal death hours days or weeks after being shot. Catch a sample of ducks anywhere in the world where shooters work their charms and an x-ray machine will reveal the horror of old injuries ... and these are just the ducks who have recovered. This is the tip of the ice-berg of pain and terror that is duck shooting from the perspective of the duck.
So, if you have been recently flooded and are in a state of despair, take comfort in the thought that in a few states of Australia (Tasmania, Victoria, and South Australia) the nation’s duck shooters are smiling, oiling their guns, polishing their decoys and preparing for what promises to be a thrilling season of intellectual challenge and broken feathered bodies.
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