I remember the first time I saw something die. A squealing hare- limbs twitching, eyes wide-ripped apart by whippets in the village green of Norfolk. I was only six years old. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything to help the creature. Just watched the group of men cheer as fresh blood soaked the hedgerows.
That moment rewired something in me. Since then, I’ve spent my life pushing back against the cruelty of blood sports. Anything from badger baiting, stag coursing and of course illegal fox hunting.
