People would often make the arguement that fish are all the same. They each have scales and eyes and fins. But when pulling salmon out of my net I see a different soul in each fish. It's hard to imagine that something so different from humans could have a spirit. But they do. They each have different eyes, different looks, different ways of experiencing death. There are the fighters, that come out of the water with powerful flips of the tail, in one last attempt to escape. There are the timid, scared, ones, that lay limply, breathing heavily, eyeing their capturer with self-pity and hope of release. And then there are the heartbroken ones. The mothers that know they didn't get a chance to lay their eggs. The fathers that feel the extreme pain of being so close yet so far. I can't kill them- any of them. I see too much human in them. I will pull them out of the net with dignity. I will keep from peeling their scales or scratching their bodies. I manuever my hands in a way to keep them calm during death. But I can't pull their gills. My darling does that. And I can't watch... all I can do is hope that their beautiful souls will fly swiftly to heaver and their meat will not be taken for granted.
