From my earliest memory my Dad asked me along on all of his hunts. It was my decision, my birthright, my every waking longing. Some hunts proved my master, some I mastered.

When the early morning roust out was met by my head under the covers, he wouldn't extracate me from my warm den. Rather, he would softly, with the calm of a priest, meet my always impeachable arguments with gentle reason...it was my decision.

As I grew into this right of manhood, waking with the old men and the young bulls in our hunting camp, an awarness of the reason we hunt and the reason we kill God's creatures grew within... from the early planted seeds. It was necessary...my birthright; it was my decision.

At the birth of my son I vowed to plant and nurture the very seeds my father had sown many years before. I taught my boy how to shoot his first BB gun, then pellet gun,... 22,... 410,... 20 gauge...high powered rifle. I rousted him from the cotton and wool womb, pillow over his head, as if to hide like a cartoon ostrich. He came grudgingly, and put on his best face for his dad.

He took his first cottontail at 6...first quail at 7. He posed... the obligatory gun in one hand, dead animal in the other for a proud pop's snapshots.

At 12 and a day he shot his first pronghorn...eight weeks later a fat forked horn muley. But, only at my urging did he take to the field.

Now my son is 34 and married. He doesn't hunt; he seldom fishes...it is his decision, and I respect him for it...