I have come to this farm to hunt rabbits with butcher and “mobile slaughterer” Russell Barnes, who has stalked introduced species since he was a teenager. Bald patches spread across the slopes where rabbits have chewed the grass back to dry earth. Rabbit colonies have savaged this undulating landscape, leaving it pockmarked and scarred. Mobile butcher Russell Barnes and Age journalist Benjamin Preiss hunting rabbits. The crack of gunfire sends other rabbits scurrying, but I try to hold steady and focus on the target, long after the bullet has cleared the barrel. Between breaths, I pull back on the trigger in one decisive motion. I crouch, then lie down on dry brambly grass that prickles through my T-shirt as I track the twin glimmering specks through the rifle scope.Įventually, those eyes pause long enough for my finger to settle on the trigger – the rifle’s smooth wooden butt pressed against my cheek. In the last glow of dusk, two eyes glint at the foot of the hill, caught in the spotlight’s powerful green beam. G raphic content: This story contains descriptions of hunting and photographs of dead animals that may distress some readers. Normal text size Larger text size Very large text size
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