I was an avid small game hunter as a kid, right up until I was 16 years old, when a low percentage shot wounded an animal, which then wedged itself into the crook of an old tree where we could not reach it. I listened to the poor thing crying until it died of shock or blood loss. I never got over that sound of suffering. It haunted me for quite some time, and to some degree, still does. That was my last hunt.
That said, I made a personal choice and I don't judge those who do hunt. That's their personal choice.
About 30 years ago (1982, I recall) , I thought that I might have to shoot a black bear. I didn't want to, but I had a real concern that circumstances might require it.
My wife and I were up at her parent's large log cabin in the wilds of NW Maine visiting for a week. My brother-in-law and his wife were also visiting. Up in that neck of the woods, there is no garbage collection... You simply loaded the trash cans into your car or truck and took them to the nearest dump. Because black bears were as common as fleas, you kept your trash cans somewhere safe from the bears, who would raid the cans if at all possible. My father-in-law kept his in a small barn. He kept a lot of things in the barn.
One evening, just before sunset, my sister-in-law went out to the barn to find something (I forget what). 10 minutes later, when she came out, she discovered a black bear sniffing around and pawing at their vegetable garden, mid way between the cabin and the barn. She returned to the barn, closing the door behind her. Opening a window, she began shouting for assistance. My brother-in-law and I came out to see what the yelling was about and there was the bear, digging in the sweet potato patch (I didn't think that black bears were diggers, but this guy must have been very hungry, and they will eat anything they can find when hungry). He was a young male, perhaps weighing in at 200 lbs. We yelled, threw some small rocks, and banged on the trash can (emptied that morning) lid. The bear was nonplussed. He could have cared less.
So, I went into the cabin and retrieved my old Winchester 94 (I would not hike in the near wilderness without bringing a pack rifle). I loaded it and came outside. I figured that if I fired a round near the bear, the noise and concussion might persuade him to move along. Levering in a 30-30, I fired a round into the firewood pile about 10 feet from the bear. He turned his head to look at me for a few seconds, and went right back to digging. $@#^&%$ bear!
Annoyed, I grabbed the empty steel trash can by a handle, gave it a big swing and tossed it towards the bear. It bounced once and hit him square in his hind quarters. The bear lit out for the woods at a full gallop... He disappeared into the trees and we didn't see him again. I was quite relieved, as several bears in the area had to be killed due to their habit of wandering onto people's property. The Sheriff would drive over and sometimes have to shoot the offending bears if they hadn't already left and were disinclined to skedaddle. These days, they tranquilize and relocate the bear. However, back then, shooting was not an uncommon solution, especially if children, livestock or pets were at risk.
I could not bring myself to shoot such a wonderful animal, unless a life was in danger. After all, we were the ones encroaching on his turf.. This bear was not at all aggressive, but he was a stubborn (edit) son of a gun.
