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LSDMTHC

i live 2 minutes from the lion killer...........

24 posts in this topic

ooo do it - guess they are protesting out there now - memorial of stuffed animals outside door too.  

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oh yeah im doing this. "cat lives matter" but seriously walter palmer is a little dumbass.

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well at least his office. im right out by MOA. i am thinking of making a stop by there today after work. im bored thought i would share :cheers:

 

ps. i Minnesotans tend to suck so i am not really surprised. i want out :ohmy:

 

http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation-now/2015/07/28/minnesota-dentist-walter-james-palmer-cecil-lion-africa/3078588Yo

You all disgust me honestly. It is just a damn animal. ruin a mans life over a useless animal.

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I'm all out of shits to give on this one.  If cecil wasn't shot by the dentist from minnesota it would have been the lawyer from london, or some other asshat with too much money and not enough brains.

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how we treat animals is a reflection of how we treat one another.  you need to learn to respect life.

Tell me how we respect life when we have terminated over 13 million pregnancies in America alone. A single lion is meaningless.

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not really how i would think about it. but IMO kill and be killed. unless in defense. 

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how we treat animals is a reflection of how we treat one another.  you need to learn to respect life.

sadly it does not seem the masses will understand that. its too bad:sad:

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"The saddest part of all is that now that Cecil is dead, the next lion in the hierarchy...will most likely kill all Cecil's cubs so that he can insert his own bloodline into the females," Rodrigues said.

Killing for sport is wrong. Shameful. It kills the soul to do such a hateful thing.

He knew what he was doing. Around here hunters buy expensive off-road vehicles and set up expensive metal stands to kill deer. They put out corn to bait the deer to come close, then BAM, a shot to the top of Bambi's head. No walking or hunting involved. Just a high-powered rifle with a scope that any idjit can kill with. The "hunters" take a little bit of blackstrap, maybe the antlers for a trophy. A few take the carcass and turn it into sausage with some pork for flavoring.

Hunters also allow no other predators--wolves, bears, coyotes. They'll shoot dogs too if they spoil the "hunt." Predators are good for the environment. They cull the herds and preserve vegetation and soil. Please read the following article. If it doesn't touch your spirit, then you must be a sport hunter. The dying "green fire" in the wolf's eyes still brings tears to mine.

http://www.eco-action.org/dt/thinking.html

Thinking Like a Mountain
By Aldo Leopold

A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world. Every living thing (and perhaps many a dead one as well) pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh, to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow, to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come, to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank, to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning, known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.

Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there, for it is felt in all wolf country, and distinguishes that country from all other land. It tingles in the spine of all who hear wolves by night, or who scan their tracks by day. Even without sight or sound of wolf, it is implicit in a hundred small events: the midnight whinny of a pack horse, the rattle of rolling rocks, the bound of a fleeing deer, the way shadows lie under the spruces. Only the ineducable tyro can fail to sense the presence or absence of wolves, or the fact that mountains have a secret opinion about them.

My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock, at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording the torrent, her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail, we realized our error: it was a wolf. A half-dozen others, evidently grown pups, sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming melee of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.

In those days we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack, but with more excitement than accuracy: how to aim a steep downhill shot is always confusing. When our rifles were empty, the old wolf was down, and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable slide-rocks.

We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes - something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters' paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.

Since then I have lived to see state after state extirpate its wolves. I have watched the face of many a newly wolfless mountain, and seen the south-facing slopes wrinkle with a maze of new deer trails. I have seen every edible bush and seedling browsed, first to anaemic desuetude, and then to death. I have seen every edible tree defoliated to the height of a saddlehorn. Such a mountain looks as if someone had given God a new pruning shears, and forbidden Him all other exercise. In the end the starved bones of the hoped-for deer herd, dead of its own too-much, bleach with the bones of the dead sage, or molder under the high-lined junipers.

I now suspect that just as a deer herd lives in mortal fear of its wolves, so does a mountain live in mortal fear of its deer. And perhaps with better cause, for while a buck pulled down by wolves can be replaced in two or three years, a range pulled down by too many deer may fail of replacement in as many decades. So also with cows. The cowman who cleans his range of wolves does not realize that he is taking over the wolf's job of trimming the herd to fit the range. He has not learned to think like a mountain. Hence we have dustbowls, and rivers washing the future into the sea.

We all strive for safety, prosperity, comfort, long life, and dullness. The deer strives with his supple legs, the cowman with trap and poison, the statesman with pen, the most of us with machines, votes, and dollars, but it all comes to the same thing: peace in our time. A measure of success in this is all well enough, and perhaps is a requisite to objective thinking, but too much safety seems to yield only danger in the long run. Perhaps this is behind Thoreau's dictum: In wildness is the salvation of the world. Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the howl of the wolf, long known among mountains, but seldom perceived among men.

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On 7/30/2015, 11:34:22, grav said:
 

 

"The saddest part of all is that now that Cecil is dead, the next lion in the hierarchy...will most likely kill all Cecil's cubs so that he can insert his own bloodline into the females," Rodrigues said.

Killing for sport is wrong. Shameful. It kills the soul to do such a hateful thing.

He knew what he was doing. Around here hunters buy expensive off-road vehicles and set up expensive metal stands to kill deer. They put out corn to bait the deer to come close, then BAM, a shot to the top of Bambi's head. No walking or hunting involved. Just a high-powered rifle with a scope that any idjit can kill with. The "hunters" take a little bit of blackstrap, maybe the antlers for a trophy. A few take the carcass and turn it into sausage with some pork for flavoring.

Hunters also allow no other predators--wolves, bears, coyotes. They'll shoot dogs too if they spoil the "hunt." Predators are good for the environment. They cull the herds and preserve vegetation and soil. Please read the following article. If it doesn't touch your spirit, then you must be a sport hunter. The dying "green fire" in the wolf's eyes still brings tears to mine.

http://www.eco-action.org/dt/thinking.html

Thinking Like a Mountain
By Aldo Leopold

A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world. Every living thing (and perhaps many a dead one as well) pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh, to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow, to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come, to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank, to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning, known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.

Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there, for it is felt in all wolf country, and distinguishes that country from all other land. It tingles in the spine of all who hear wolves by night, or who scan their tracks by day. Even without sight or sound of wolf, it is implicit in a hundred small events: the midnight whinny of a pack horse, the rattle of rolling rocks, the bound of a fleeing deer, the way shadows lie under the spruces. Only the ineducable tyro can fail to sense the presence or absence of wolves, or the fact that mountains have a secret opinion about them.

My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock, at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording the torrent, her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail, we realized our error: it was a wolf. A half-dozen others, evidently grown pups, sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming melee of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.

In those days we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack, but with more excitement than accuracy: how to aim a steep downhill shot is always confusing. When our rifles were empty, the old wolf was down, and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable slide-rocks.

We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes - something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters' paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.

Since then I have lived to see state after state extirpate its wolves. I have watched the face of many a newly wolfless mountain, and seen the south-facing slopes wrinkle with a maze of new deer trails. I have seen every edible bush and seedling browsed, first to anaemic desuetude, and then to death. I have seen every edible tree defoliated to the height of a saddlehorn. Such a mountain looks as if someone had given God a new pruning shears, and forbidden Him all other exercise. In the end the starved bones of the hoped-for deer herd, dead of its own too-much, bleach with the bones of the dead sage, or molder under the high-lined junipers.

I now suspect that just as a deer herd lives in mortal fear of its wolves, so does a mountain live in mortal fear of its deer. And perhaps with better cause, for while a buck pulled down by wolves can be replaced in two or three years, a range pulled down by too many deer may fail of replacement in as many decades. So also with cows. The cowman who cleans his range of wolves does not realize that he is taking over the wolf's job of trimming the herd to fit the range. He has not learned to think like a mountain. Hence we have dustbowls, and rivers washing the future into the sea.

damn, i want to read this but im at worm so i have to be "working" lol

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