On Sunday last, I set out with my family to commit a murder.
^ These are the instruments of death, available free for our use. Nearby, a list offered the daily selection of premium targets, choice victims for our lethal attack
^Now sufficiently armed and dangerous, we wandered among the innocents, brazenly strategizing which we would kill. My daughter casually sipped her peppermint mocha as she cold-bloodedly considered the potential homicide.
I have little taste for this deadly December sport. As usual, Ranger kept me somewhat distracted, with his enthusiastic need to explore. Blissfully unaware of our sinister errand, he pranced here and there, wrapping his long leash around the stumpy remains of other victims of this annual killing spree - not to mention the occasional lifting of his leg - thereby requiring my constant attention and assistance.
^ The verdant needles of our victim seemed to understand their fate. I could have sworn I saw them tremble, and heard them breathe their last.
^ Then it was ended. Silently, lifelessly, the trophy was roped to the top of our car and prepared for transport.
^ Thrilled by our bloodlust but chilled to the bone, we gathered around a roaring fire to swap stories of glory with the other hunters, and celebrate our killings.
And it was just about this time when my family told me to hush my silly drama, for crying out loud.
These beautiful firs were born to be Christmas trees, they reminded me, and their noble purpose is fulfilled when we harvest them.
Well. Fair enough. But it still feels like vegan murder to me.
P. S. My favorite murder music:
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Read more about my getting-ready-for-Christmas adventures: