The only time I ever went hunting was with my brother when he came to the ranch to shoot doves. I was on crutches, which made the whole thing comical if not dangerous. Imagine going after birds you shot when you have to hop to do it.
My brother ended up cleaning the birds since I was pretty useless at it. I have a very vivid memory of heads and wings littering the ground. An image that probably should be grotesque seemed to me oddly attractive. I never again hunted, not so much out of a belief that it is wrong but because I believe that if you can’t deal with the whole process, you have no business doing it. If you are going to kill something you should have a reverence for the life you have taken.