They say, "If you’re not doing anything wrong, you don’t have to worry." I found out the hard way that’s not true.
In the late 1990s, I worked in animal care in the UK and became close friends, then housemates, with another staffer, Wendy*.
Wendy went out on the weekends trying to stop local hunts using dogs to kill wildlife, a "sport" that’s now illegal. They used tactics like spraying scent across the animal’s path to confuse the hounds. I was never an activist but thought the hunts were inhumane.
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I met some of Wendy’s friends who came to volunteer at our workplace. One of these, James Straven, told Wendy he was interested in me. I thought James was attractive. He was single, seemed nice and was well spoken and well presented. Wendy had known him since she was 17 and said he was a good guy. We started dating in early 2001. I was 21. He said he was 33.
James was my first love. I felt at ease with him. We talked easily and enjoyed each other’s company. I liked how he was there for Wendy during her mother’s terminal illness and death. I liked his commitment to protecting animals. He seemed to have strong morals.