pH: I want to get into falconry.

me: Um, okay. (I downloaded some falconry library books to pH’s Kindle and requested others through ILL.)

pH, racing into my room, 30 minutes later: I’m really, really, really interested in falconry.

me: Okay. Long before you apprentice (I used my 30 minutes Googling), you have to do some things. First you have to learn how to shoot. That’s fine, we’re planning on that anyway. Second, you have to learn how to hunt. Third, that means you have to get used to killing things.


me (continued): Do you think you’d be okay with killing things? Because if you want a hawk or a kestrel to kill something for you, you have to be willing to do it yourself.

pH: I think I’ll be okay with it. Yeah. I think I can kill things.

me: We’d have to actually eat the stuff you kill. You want to eat game? My grandfather never ate venison after the Depression.

pH: (Whose favored foods are almost exclusively, and in this order: blueberries, ribeye, seaweed, edamame, miso, Ritz crackers and cheese, tamago, and Luna bars). Long pause, then: Yes.

me: You’d kill things and you’d have your bird kill things. You’re sure?

pH, strongly and emphatically: Yes.

me: And…you’re planning a career in politics now?

pH: Yep.


So while I wait for the vegan army to evict us from Portland, the reality is that while I’m not hot on shooting anything, let alone dressing or eating it (I actually don’t like to eat much meat: raw salmon, yes. Cooked halibut and salmon, yes. Occasionally a good steak, yes. Anything else? Ew….) if she really, really wants to do it, I’m fine with it. She’d be able to support us come the zombie apocalypse, and my grandfather did feed the family with venison during the Depression. (kH’s family got by because they had chickens and a cow.) However, pH can’t stand being near an insect, has never killed one to my knowledge, screams at spiders, and hates loud noises. But, pH learning how to shoot is on the 2017 to do list, anyway. We’ll see how it goes; she can’t apprentice until she’s 14.