Story from Jens

Story by Jens Bagh


Don't Shoot the Old Bitch.

There are times when customs of different cultures conflict in the most unexpected manner, conspiring to produce reactions which may have deadly results. Once in the Arctic an old bitch came close to be the death of me. As bitches go she was not unusual but as she grew older she developed some strange quirks in her character. When husky bitches no longer can have litters of their own, they sometimes attack younger bitches or their puppies which needless to say results in fighting between the dogs and upsets owners who see their stock destroyed. The Inuit know of this apparently common trait among husky dogs and are prepared to deal with it in what to white men may seem a very ruthless manner. The law of the land is clear, if a dog owner cannot control his dogs and if they repeatedly attack another team then the attacking dogs are killed.
Well, this old bitch had once attacked and destroyed a young puppy and clearly was no longer mentally stable. I told the station handyman to get rid of the beast somehow or other. That he prevaricated and never got it done should have put me on the alert but it didn't. A few days later there was a frightful racket outside on what was otherwise a beautiful winter's day and it transpired that the old bitch had started another fight by killing off a second puppy. Well I was not prepared to have this go on indefinitely so I grabbed a gun and went out and shot the old bitch and I don't think she even heard the gun go off. Everyone else in the vicinity did though and the next thing I knew was a young fellow coming at me with a gun. The gun clicked, a misfire, and then he grabbed his gun by the barrel and took a swing at me with a will. I used my own gun to fend off the blow which resulted in his gun breaking in two with the butt end hitting me in the face, splitting my lower lip wide open and knocking me to the ground. I thought this behaviour a little unreasonable and got up and pacified my attacker by holding him in a rather painful grip. He conceded the error of his ways and promised to be more reasonable in the future.
Only later did I get a more complete picture of the whole affair. He had arrived in the arctic very young and had few friends. When the whole world seemed to go against him, he sometimes retired to the carpenter's shop and sought comfort nesting up to the old bitch which to him was the only friendly creature around. And I had shot the only true friend he had ever had.
I did not press charges for attempted murder or for causing grievous bodily harm, for if truth be known then in some obscure way I felt after hearing the full story that I was as guilty as he.
It is hard to keep ones head when an old bitch loses her mind but whenever I am tempted to make a rash decision there is a scar on my chin reminding me that a little mature reflection may save a lot of grief later on.