Claire set aside her plate and I pushed the box in front of her. She gingerly opened the lid and peered inside, grabbing for the picture on top. It was an old black and white photo dated from 1952 of a father and teenage son on a hunting trip. They wore identical checkered flannel coats and identical, tooth bearing, unrealistic smiles. They each held an end of a deer carcass that hung limply from their grips.

“God, how repulsive,” Claire said curiously, “I wonder what they did with the deer, or where they shot it, or who took the picture. Most of all, I’m curious as to how they could be smiling so broadly while holding the limp body of their own murderous scheme.”

“It’s sad isn’t it,” I said musing, “How something survivalistic blossomed into something so heartfelt and sports like.”

“I think if someone’s going to go out and kill something, it should be a labourious struggle between human and animal. Dangerous, frightening, beautiful. Something you do because you’re starving,” Claire argued.