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Royal Blood On Their Hands

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Prince William and Kate Middleton may be giving life to a human animal, but the Royal Family is much more typically giving death to nonhuman animals.

So as nonhuman animals strolling grounds of the many royal properties shudder as yet another royal human is born that will no doubt follow the family tradition of torturing and killing other species, it is appropriate to remind humans of their sordid speciesist royals.

Great Grandmother Queen Elizabeth Has Some Time To Kill While On Tour

The Royals have a very long history of bloodsports. Historically, royal hunting often involved placing a tiger in a paddock so that a visiting sovereign could shoot him dead. 

Queen Elizabeth enjoyed such hunting in her 1961 trip to Nepal. Although, as you can see in the video below, she was careful not to get her hands dirty and had an official shooter to kill the tiger and rhinoceros which she “spotted”.


Mum Goes Killing

The same royal contempt for nature continues to this day. The baby’s mother (Kate) and Grandfather (Prince Charles) also enjoy killing nonhumans. What a wonderful lesson she can teach to her new child! Here they are in 2007:

Kate and Charles prepare to kill some nonhuman animals

Dressed in a camouflage jacket, dark jeans, leg warmers and gaiters over her boots, Miss Middleton could be seen at one point lying on the ground – seemingly to prepare the sights of her gun before shooting.With a pair of binoculars around her neck and a relaxed shooting position, she looked a veteran stalker.


The Hunting Ban Hits The Royal Family Hard

Unfortunately for the royal baby it is being born into a UK where the hunting of wild mammals with dogs (eg foxes, hares, and deers) is now banned. Hunting dogs allow royal humans to kill nonhumans because they dont have the ability to do it on their own. The irony is of course that the royals use animals to kill animals. So the victim is the perpetrator (remind you of a human genocide?) But of course, whether being used to kill or be killed, it is all about the manipulation and torture of other species.

Father William, Grandpa Charles, and Uncle Harry took the news of the hunting ban hard. As noted in The Telegraph:


Charles even threatened to leave the country. Unfortunately for the nonhuman animals he failed to make good this threat.

For you see, there are many exceptions the royals can exploit in the Hunting Act. For example, the Act makes it an offence to hunt a mouse with a dog but not a rat, you can legally hunt a rabbit but not a hare. You can flush a fox to guns with two dogs legally but if you use three it’s an offence. You can flush a fox to a bird of prey with as many dogs as you like. So the royal humans can continue to harass  nonhumans with dogs and pass on the tradition to the next generation of blood-hungry humans.


Prince Charles looking for some nonhuman animals to hunt down and kill

Other Torture

Queen Elizabeth is still at it. Recently she was seen at a cauldron of human speciesism and superiority – the racecourse. Here she was, manipulating horses for the human pursuit of gambling. We know that horse-racing represents the nadir of human civilization, and the horse will likely end up dead.


The Queen dragging a horse around without consent

The Royals also enjoy using horses to play polo (apparently they are too important to play while standing on their own feet and therefore must be carried around), known as The Sport of (Bloodthirsty) Kings. 

Princess Anne similarly enjoyed torturing horses in Olympic equestrian events, and has passed that callousness on to her daughter Zara Phillips.

Horses are also used to pull royal carriages for the purposes of human pomp and human ceremony.

Not to mention the fur, the food, and the gifts of dead animals from countries around the world.

A Gift For The Royal Baby

Given its voraciously vicious bloodlines, when the royal baby is given a toy bear to play with by one of its relatives, look closely: it’s probably made of real (dead) bear.

Articles

Butterboy: A Short Story

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They’d witness him rise with spring. When all around life was growing and loving life, Butterboy was bringing them down. He’d emerge with the sun from a wooden house built on the brink of a wooden town. Wire-stringed door innards flapping in the wind.

He walked the smooth paving of Centre Street, eyes pointed inwards. But for a blue-clothed bow lazily tied around his forehead, and of course an outstretched and overly used butterfly net, he could have been anyone’s boy. 

The town was taken with the boy who only showed himself eight days a year. They watched him from the piercing windows and the nosey porches leaning over the street. He quickened stride when they spoke.

“Why is their a hole in your butterfly net?” they’d ask him.

“How else would I catch them?” he’d reply.

“Then why is there a net at all?”

“How else would I let them go?”

Maureen Meltzam saw him through the library window. Blue-tinted morning rays infiltrated as she opened her words to the world. She saw him but she didn’t interrupt his pilgrimage to the lake. She saw him but she let him go.

She had long since forgotten that first time she saw him. Eight years had past since then. Maureen was with her parents, enjoying the popular shores of the waterway. But she had escaped quite accidentally, and soon her young feet were fighting their way through the muddy undergrowth, her imprints squelching as they gently pressed down the overflowing edges of the lake. Although her curiosity had shielded any thought of tears, she was relieved to come across a small clearing in the greenery. A shock of cold, fresh water suddenly but seamlessly flowed through the flimsy pink fabric of her sneakers. Maureen clumsily reached down to dislodge her waterlogged shoes, but heard a familiar squelch approaching. Still crouching, she parted the branches that blocked her view.

A fluttering spectrum spiral warmed her eyes. A living rainbow surrounded a deep blue bow tied around the head of an otherwise colourless boy, who was recklessly waving a tattered butterfly net. A closer look might have focussed the sparkling blur, but as Maureen moved an upturned root snagged her ankle and sent her stumbling with a splash. She was bent, soaking in brown, searching briefly for the shoes that had fallen from her grasp. Returning upright, she was exposed to the scene. The butterflies had departed, returning monotone to the boy’s cheeks. He spied her with a fear in his eyes that reflected off Maureen’s retinas, and sent both scurrying into retreat.

If not for time, the boy wouldn’t have changed. He carried the same butterfly net, only now the small holes in the worn string had merged into one large emptiness.

Where Centre Street shied away from a thick pod of scrub, a pebbly path escorted Butterboy beyond the multi-leafed shadows that shaded the expanse of mangroves enclosing the lake. The welcoming landscape was defiled by fellow hunters who actively shunned him. Perched on the grassy banks of the lake, insults flew by him faster than the bullets chasing their waterfowl prey, and just as loud. Butterboy didn’t address them. He was too busy waving his partly-netted wand through the unpopulated air.

“Big catch today Butterboy?”

“Mm.” He grinned at his empty net. “Looks like it.”

He shuffled home and opened the wire door. As it creaked closed he turned to be greeted by a swirling kaleidoscope of butterflies. They flapped their colours, permeating Butterboy, himself spinning through the joy of their presence. His catch. His reward. For eight years now his home provided the only release free from enemy eyes.

By sundown the remaining butterflies had exited through the hole in the front door. It was only then that he noticed he was slowly leaking red out of a hole in his skin. A bullet must have grazed him. He felt weakly. It was time.

Butterboy wrapped himself within his cocoon, and regressed, as the dull, lonely moth. Maybe next year he’d emerge in the heart of spring as a butterfly. Maybe then someone would capture him in her oh so gentle butterfly net.

Day two and a stunning sunrise revealed itself without Butterboy. The town gossiped, but Maureen contained her perplexity. Six days later he still hadn’t shown himself. The town believed it was the end for Butterboy, finally succumbing to his uniqueness, and Maureen too was worried for the worst.

The library never opened on that eighth morning. Maureen slid behind Centre Street, and drove past the seeded fields to the quiet side, where the crumbs of a house housed a crumbling boy. Other than a ripped wire curtain rippling in the breeze, the doorway was unprotected. She entered nervously before tripping over a worn cardboard box that littered the hallway. As she picked up the package to relocate it to a safer place, she noticed a return to sender stamp. ‘To the girl by the lake’ it was addressed. The writing was childish, but legible. Maureen couldn’t help herself. She attempted to open one end but it tore in her hands and out fell two child size pink sneakers. They were clean, but clearly aged.

For a shocking instant her being faltered and the shoes dropped to the floor.

“…Hello?” She had to find him now.

Silence beckoned her further within. Only one door was visible off the large room. She walked in uncomfortably. “Anyone home?”

A large brown cylinder curled where normally a bed might lie. It was padded with dried mud, ripped newspaper and foam, and lined with leaves, bark and hessian blankets.

The butterfly net was resting against the wall. Maureen picked up the net and waved it through the heavy air. Silently a single butterfly flapped from the homemade cocoon, a rich azure ribbon lighting its wings as it spun a circumference encircling Maureen before flying through her butterfly net.