God gave man dominion over the animals

God gave man dominion over the animals of the earth

As we quietly make our way to a small clearing, well hidden by short gaunt pines and the bleached skeletons of ancient dogwood, the sharp sound of frozen mud crunches beneath our boots, our breath bellows forth like steam from an angry locomotive, and the bitter cold bites deeper into our raw faces and blistered hands.
Once in the clearing, a sudden breathless quiet spreads among us. Suddenly, to the right a score of blackbirds scream out their angry cries, throwing hasty insults and mocking taunts at those who dare to invade the sanctity of their domain. To the left the high grass, having shed its early morning dew, is ripped open by the passage of a killer hurrying to leave the scene of his crime.
Before us, lying supine on rust colored pine needles, are the mutilated bodies. Their final death throws ugly portraits of surprise, agony, and despair. A young female, coated with splashes of rich crimson, slowly turning to burnt umber, looks up with sad longing eyes, the vital spark of life quickly ebbing.
A young fawn, barely old enough to walk, snuggles up to the slowly stiffening body of his dying mother, his insistent pleas for help and comfort slowly fading into ragged gasps for precious air as the wound in his chest eats away his life, his weeping eyes glistening with damp helpless tears.
As the Game Warden glances in my direction, I detect another tear slowly and methodically working its way down the chapped and weathered creases of his saddened face. But, his eyes are vibrantly alive, the bitterness and anger they display has taken complete possession of his thoughts and emotions.
From deep inside his throat a desperate cry rings out, shattering the silence and sending the blackbirds fleeing in alarmed panic. He slowly walks over to the dying animals and, with a quick and expert slash with his razor sharp knife, ends their pain for eternity. In the distance the coughing sound of a fleeing vehicle leaves its echoing rumble across the hillside as it silently fades away.
"Happens every year," the Game Warden says, the bitter words spat out in anger and remorse. "Most of the hunters around here respect our laws and abide by the code of sportsmanship, but there are those few poachers who take advantage of us all. They're not fit to live among decent folks."
The brutal stories he and his fellow Game Wardens tell are enough to turn the stomach of even a hardened combat soldier; tales of butchered calves, slain hunting dogs, wounded hunters, destroyed cropland, animal mutilations, wanton destruction, and many other barbaric acts.
To hunt for food when the season is open or to destroy stray predators is one thing, but to overkill, kill for sport or fun, or to mutilate innocent animals is a crime against both the laws of nature and of mankind.
Our Game Wardens have a difficult, serious, and demanding job to perform. However, they are often verbally abused, spit on, and even physically assaulted for trying to accomplish their lawful duties.
They are not only subject to the verbal and physical abuses of inconsiderate hunters, they must endure the constant punishment that nature throws at them. They spend long hours in the lonely wilderness among ice crusted streams, during torrential storms, or the blazing relentless heat of summer. Like soldiers, they are the guardians who protect the rights of a free people and guarantee that future generations of wildlife will live free and prosper.
Without the Game Wardens and the personal and professional sacrifices they make, God's wildlife creations would follow the path of the dinosaur into extinction, into memory, and eventually into oblivion.