she called it “murder” — while eating a burger

Last Thanksgiving, I brought a fresh venison roast to my in-laws’ dinner. Harvested the deer myself a week earlier, clean shot, quick death. My sister-in-law wouldn’t touch it. Said she doesn’t eat “murdered animals.” I looked at her plate. Mashed potatoes drowned in gravy. And next to that? A pile of turkey. From a store. I said nothing. But I was boiling. Because the deer I shot lived wild and free. No cages. No hormones. No slaughterhouse screams. I tracked him for two days, respected his path, and when the moment came, I didn’t miss. That’s “murder”? But shrink-wrapped meat, raised in misery and killed out of sight—that’s... what? Mercy? We’re not the same.