Children's author Lucinda Hare gives her personal account of how growing up in the countryside gave her first-hand experience of the cruelty of snares.
I was brought up in a haven of woodland, beaches and commons land; a microcosm of Scottish habitat and wildlife, and it was there that I developed my life-long passion for animals. I remember the first time I first saw a clapped leveret in a ploughed field, invisible save for the large brown eyes that followed my every move.
I watched as a partridge spread her wings and called to her chicks, who then rushed beneath their feathery shelter when the rain came down. It was a world full of wonder that changed with every passing season and every passing year.
I also remember when I first saw a rabbit dance. I must have been five or six and as I knelt quietly at the fringe of the forest so as not to disturb this leaping display, until, with dismay and mounting distress I realised what I was seeing was a trap: my first snare.
There was no stop on this snare, just a loop that tightened about its neck each time the frantic rabbit leapt, snuffing out its life little by little.
With tears of rage and utter incomprehension I fumbled with the choking wire and released that rabbit. It sat for five minutes, its sides blowing like bellows before racing away.
But over the years I encountered countless others who were not so lucky; trapped by their neck or a limb or around their gut; they had died in unheard agony in the variable name of business, land management or rural tradition; but at what price?
Snares are not only brutal, they are indiscriminate killers: seventy percent of animals killed are not the intended targets, including pet dogs and cats.
A staggering 12,300 animals are killed every day in the UK to support the rural tradition of pheasant and grouse shooting.
This is always justified on the basis that shooting is a vital part of our rural economy. Countless rabbits and raptors are also killed in the name of pest control, the former in snares without a stop (the animal will die), and the latter illegally by poisoned bait. Is land management worth the cost when measured against the fear, anguish and pain of sentient creatures? I would argue never.
Many of Scotland’s modern conservation bodies such as the RSPB, Scottish Wildlife Trust and the John Muir Trust manage their land without the use of snares, and just because something is traditional does not mean it is a good thing; the slave trade is a case in point.
Whole economies were built on the back of the slave trade, and those who tried to end it were subject to public derision, bullying, violence, and relentless political lobbying by those with a vested interest: those, in other words, with wealth and a voice in parliament. But in the name of compassion and humanity these same economies have long since moved on to other things, and so should we.
The challenge for animal welfare charities is that in our cosy urban age the majority of us will never actually see an animal violently die, the closest we will come is road kill, so few can imagine the torture and terror of the snare, the screams and the smell.
Only when it is a much loved pet, a dog, a cat or sometimes a rabbit that is injured or killed in a snare, does the reality strike home. Ignorance carries the weight of inertia with it, and favours the continuance of the status quo.
“There is little that separates humans from other sentient beings,” Gandhi observed. “we all feel pain, we all feel joy, we all deeply crave to be alive and live freely, and we all share this planet together."
The Scottish Government would do well to listen to those who are the voice of the voiceless, because they are no longer a silent minority. Snares are not acceptable.
Lucinda Hare wrote the critically acclaimed 'Dragon Whisperer'. She has kindly donated hand illustrated copies to OneKind. Get your copy here.