People used to look at me funny when I said that my Dad was my hero; like I had something on my face. I suppose in their eyes a farmer doesn’t fit the stereotype. He wasn’t a fireman or a policeman. He didn’t tell exciting stories of his daring. Strangers didn’t recognise him in the street. He was just a plain ordinary farmer but to me at the age of nine he was superman and I wanted to do what he did; to be just like him. “Please Dad!” I’d beg each time he went out hunting and Mum would give him that look but not say a word. Then he’d pretend like he was thinking about it for a while and Mum’s look would get more intense until eventually he’d say what he said every time. “When you’re older son.” I’d watch him pack his 22 rifle and his 20 gauge single shot shotgun into the steel box in the back of his Land Rover and lock it with two heavy duty padlocks. All the while I’d be wide eyed, tugging on his trouser leg and pleading. Then he would look down at me, shake his head and leave. “When you’re a bit bigger son.” In early spring when the birds were at the seed he’d often come home with a brace of wood pigeon which Mum would cook up into a pie, with mash and peas. A few months later it would be rabbits, then later still as the weather started to turn again, he might bring us pheasant or deer. I looked on with pride and admiration each time he provided for us. Of course, I always asked to ride along and always got the same answer. “Maybe next year son.” This went on for a few years until the summer of my thirteenth birthday. It felt like the middle of the night when he woke me up but as we drove out to the fields the sun started to crest on the horizon and I start to wake up properly. That year had been one of those sweltering, arid summers and the yields were low. It was also a particularly bad year for rabbits. He parked up behind a willow copse at the top of the hill where the three crops met. Corn down the south-east face, carrots down the north-east face and cabbage (which likes the evening sun) directly in front of us, sloping away to the west. We nestled into the ground with the rising sun behind us and the tall blades of corn as camouflage. Dad loaded the rifle, set it on a hunting rest, and swivelled the butt around to my shoulder. “Now’s your chance son.” He pointed to tiny movements in the distance that I could barely see but when I looked down the sight, gently teasing the scope until I was focused on where he was pointing, a few hundred yards away, in the middle of the cabbages, I saw a fat brown rabbit, eating away, bold as brass. “Remember to breath. Let the rifle do the work” He was as calm as I’d ever known him to be. He breathed slow and deep, perfectly in time with the gently swaying corn. I’m sure I must have been panting. Nerves. Excitement. Adrenaline. I looked through the scope. “Don’t let him get away.” I eased my finger over the trigger and readied myself to pull but I found myself hesitating. I could see it crystal clear, this living creature in front of me, like I was watching it on HDTV. It could have been two feet away. I could see its whiskers vibrate as it chewed. I could see it’s mottled mocha fur ruffle against the breeze. “Quickly. If the wind changes, he’ll sniff us out - even from three hundred yards.” I froze up, both desperate to and unable to take the shot. Thirteen years old, having an existential crisis. The young boy was remembering reading Beatrix Potter stories as a child while the young man, desperate to be like his hero, tried to be mindful of the crop damage caused by a single litter of rabbits. “Take the damn shot!” Suddenly, and without thinking, I pulled the trigger. Reflex. Bang! There was a moment of nothingness before I felt the striking pain in my shoulder where the recoil had hammered back. I couldn’t cry in front of him so I put on a brave face, swallowed back the pain and looked back through the scope to confirm the kill. “Did you get him?” I could see the creature clear as day taking its final breath. I saw it’s giant black eyes drift away and I felt sick inside. Dad gave me a proud squeeze of the shoulder as I sombrely nodded the affirmative afraid to actually speak in case he noticed the catch in my throat. “Good lad.” Wasn’t this what I wanted? It was exactly what I’d wanted, for such a long time, but it tasted so bittersweet. It wasn’t Dad’s fault. He couldn’t have known I wasn’t ready. Something changed in me that day and I realise now that it wasn’t just a rabbit I killed that morning. That was the year I stopped telling people that my Dad was my hero.