Last night, we watched Bambi for the first time as a family. The older kids saw it years ago and remembered the most important scenes. The rest of the kids were new to the story of the Young Prince and his adventures growing up as heir to the woodsy throne.

I don’t think this is a spoiler for anyone over the age of 12. Bambi’s mom is shot and killed by MAN. The same malevolent forest-decimater is responsible for the death of a hyperventilating and foolish quail. Bam! Bam! Bam! I hadn’t remembered all the gunfire. MAN shot at everything that moved. No animal or bird was safe. Bluebird? Bam! Chipmunk? Bam! Bunny? Bam! Mommies! Daddies! Babies! Bambambambambambambi gets shot, too.

And then, the lush forest home is nearly wiped out by a fire, started by MAN‘s campfire. I couldn’t tell what was cooking in the cast iron pot, but I’ll assume it’s the hearts of baby quails in a broth of bunny tears.

The kids watched all of the perilous sequences with little comment. I wonder what they think of the portrayal of hunters? Clearly, the values, ethics, and practices of hunting are judged in Bambi. Otherwise, the bambambambam depiction of thoughtless blasting wouldn’t have been represented to the point of hyperbole.

I grew up in western Colorado in a hunting/fishing family. Every fall, my dad would go hunting for deer and elk with my grandpa. One year, I walked into my grandparent’s garage and saw a dead deer hanging from the rafters. I touched it. They had the deer processed and ate it’s meat. I guarantee the meat wasn’t loaded with hormones or antibiotics. Its life was as free range as it gets.

My dad built guns with kits. He cleaned them. We had a rack of rifles above our fireplace. He had a gun rack in his ’67 Dodge pickup. He took me shooting. I’ve held a rifle up to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was aimed at empty metal food cans. Not deer. Not bluebirds. Above all else, my dad stressed safety. You never point a gun at a person, ever. You never assume a gun isn’t loaded, ever.

I am grateful I learned about guns. I can approach them from a place of education, not fear. They aren’t a mystery to me. They aren’t the tool of choice for drooling inbred hillbilly oafs in flyover country. The same men who hugged me when I hurt myself, carved the turkey at Thanksgiving, and taught me how to ride a bike and drive could be found wearing blaze orange when the leaves would fall. They hunted. It was honorable.

Maybe MAN as represented in Bambi exists, but I never saw him.

My kids haven’t grown up with the same exposure to hunting and fishing. To them, meat comes from the grocery store on styrofoam trays. They are removed from the process. They know it’s cow, pig, chicken, but I suspect most kids don’t really think about cow, pig, chicken as wild creatures in pristine forests or wide-open plains. They are hidden away. They may as well be cartoons. At best, they are in fields we drive by.

“Hi, cows!” little ones shout from the backseat.

My father hasn’t been hunting for years. My grandpa died in 1991. That way of life is fading away, quickly. Movies like Bambi may have worked in a small way to hasten the death of feeding hungry people through hunting. Now, animals are lined up. Their lives end using other methods.

The result is the same.

But will there be an animated movie?

I try to discourage the kids from wasting their money in toy machines. The claws slip easily off the toys. I’m convinced they are a rip-off and a bit shady, too.

But occasionally, they will show the claw who’s boss. One moment, I’m shaking my head at the folly of trying. The next, I’m high-fiving the kid who tried and triumphed.

Sam wrangled this rubbery caterpillar at the mall one day over spring break.

He gave it to Beatrix. He’d give anything to Beatrix, including his arms, legs, heart.

Since that afternoon, Bea has been obsessed with the machines. Every box ‘o cheap toys and trinkets she sees, she begs to try. I say no, usually. It’s 50 cents I’ll never see again.

I must have been feeling magnanimous on a recent day, because not only did I declare we could ride the mall carousel, we would visit the toy-grabby machine! Joy!

I did my best. I thought I picked a loose-looking and easily grab-able specimen. We maneuvered the joystick together until the claw was poised over a small stuffed bunny. I told her to push the red button, releasing the claw. It plunged into the plushy pile and rose, pincers empty. We missed.

Bea was so, so sad. She cried as we exited the mall.

It’s fascinating to see how our kids work through their disappointments, their triumphs, their emotions. Somehow, they manage to form outlets. Like a few of the other kids, Bea likes drawing and coloring. When something effects her deeply, she often draws.

Thoughts are shaken through the end of a pen.

I love this drawing because she hasn’t given up trying.

Beatrix is guiding the claw over Hello Kitty. She bypasses Spongebob, Patrick, Sonic, Mario, Luigi. She knows what she wants.

It’s inevitable. If you doubt that Beatrix gets Hello Kitty, you don’t know Beatrix.