Trappers take pictures like this all the time of trapped and helpless animals before brutally killing them. Help stop these cowardly acts. Never buy fur and always speak out against trapping. Check to see if we are planning any fur protests that you may attend. Contact us for more info on what you can do.
Imagine this dog, any dog, your dog. She’s stolen from your home and forced to live every minute of her life in a cage barely big enough to turn around in. The confinement drives her to relentlessly pace, tremble and self-mutilate. This existence goes on for years until she is brutally poisoned, electrocuted or has her neck broken. Why? For Fur. Thank goodness this isn’t your dog’s life, but it is the life of millions of other fur bearing animals like foxes and minks. 90% of caged foxes become the trim on our everyday coats, gloves and hats – it’s not just expensive coats. Real Fur comes from real animals who had real lives. Cruelty should not be in fashion. There are many stylish alternatives to real fur. Please don’t buy fur.
Rabbit fur farming is one of the fastest growing of all fur industries. Go here to take action.
Videos showing the horror of fur.
A Trapper’s True Story by James Strecker
from Beside the Hemlock Garden, a book of poetry
Published by “Mosaic Press” (firstname.lastname@example.org)
“I once was a trapper and where I made footsteps I echoed a shadow of blood.
I gripped every season with my bare hands and did what I had to do, sometimes more, though I knew I would die and lie naked underground, my skin like every winter’s ice.
One day, as I checked my lines, I walked into a clearing where morning unveiled amazing pure light. I knew myself more than alive, and that very instant I saw the mother fox in my trap.
She’d been nursing her kits, four of them, while my jagged voice cut into her flesh to the bone; she’d been crazy with fear and pain, I could tell, for there was much blood spattered all around. And as I walked toward the vixen, she raised her head to watch me come through the clearing. And she gently picked up each one of her young by the neck, one at a time, and lay it close to her breath and licked the milk from its face, and snapped its neck. She did that to all four before I could reach her.
And as she watched me over her newly born, over her dead she had saved from my hands, I knew I would never trap again. And I never have, though I killed her with one bullet as she lay back waiting to die. I buried the mother and her fur, and tonight, in the warming nighttime of spring I wonder if ever I’ll sleep until morning again.”