I have gone fishing only once in my life. Many years ago I had a girlfriend named Big Bad Butch whose parents owned a lakeside cabin at a northern Saskatchewan lake. Every day during fishing season, her retired father would take his little boat out on the lake and fish for pickerel. One morning (at the crack of dawn, I seem to recall) we went with him.
He used little teensy-weensy live frogs for bait. I felt bad for them, of course, but hey -- circle of life, etc. Needless to say, BBB's Dad baited my hook for me. I learned how to cast the line out and jiggle it up and down a bit, like the frog was swimming along in a tantalizing fashion.
Eventually, after a few tries, I felt a tug on my line. Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! I've got a fish on it! Feeling the fish fighting just about scared me to death. But I managed to reel it in and there it was, on the bottom of the boat, gasping out its last breath, my pickerel. Not a real big pickerel but a legal catch nevertheless.
For dinner that night we ate our catch battered and fried in butter, my little pickerel included. Later I got diarrhea, bad diarrhea. Guilt, I think.