Angling is a strange activity to me. You stab a fish with a hook, and torture and "play" with it until it dies of hopelessness, fear, and exhaustion. It would seem to be the perfect "sport" for sadists, yet anglers are mostly amiable, kindly people -- who would not love a harmless old duffer like Izaak Walton, who literally wrote the book on the pastime?
They tell me it's not like that. They tell me the fish has a fighting chance, if she is smart enough, and brave enough, and tough enough. She can throw the hook, break the line, and swim away with no memory of the brief terror. It's no big deal, they tell me, the hook will dissolve, the wound heal, and she won't be permanently harmed or have any memory of the trauma, the fear, the hopelessness. They tell me it won't hurt her at all. They tell me her fishy brain is not big enough to remember. Yeah, that's what they tell me.
After all, she's just a fish.
(Note: I decided to label this allegory so as to avoid shrieks of outrage from fisherfolk everywhere. For those who recognized it as such without the label, my apologies for insulting your intelligence)
-- Mal
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