cannabineer
Ursus marijanus
Oh good grief. You need to tell more of the story, as there is so much more to tell. About how you were the only one left in the hunt after the pemmican and kerosene ran out. The decision to press on after your fairweather comrades turned tail. The three-day, two-night stalk under dark sleet-storm skies before you were finally in position for the kill. The sight of the proud cunning beast from your ambush as your finger crept toward the guttering slow-match lockwork. The monster’s valiant doomed screams of defiance after taking your ball. Really, you dishonor the tale with your terse account. The spirit of the murdered whale that imbues your drinking-tooth would facepalm, if sperm whales had faces or palms.The last animal I shot was my mother's dog