Inglorious death of a pet

February 1st, 2008 Posted in Pet Pictures

The feeling would be mutual. Five minutes with me and the sheikh would be a firm believer in not only wrapping women in black cloth from head to foot, but sealing their mouths with duct tape. His photograph in the paper the other day showed the sheikh, a portly man who’s obviously fond of his tucker, with the head of a champion red stag he had boldly killed. The contrast between man and beast was marked. One was a thing of natural beauty and dignity, and it was not the man. Hunting is a pastime I just don’t get, because I don’t like killing things. I would hate to cause an animal pain, and the idea of snuffing out a life %26#150; any life %26#150; doesn’t sit comfortably with me. I even feel sorry for the mice and wetas my cats kill, which is pathetic. Yet I have a rural background, I understand the need to cull pests, and I almost get it that people hunt animals for food. At least hunters of that kind suffer for the kills they make, like the hunters who competed in last weekend’s Rimutaka pig-hunting competition. They have to hike through bush and camp out, which I detest, and they have to learn tracking skills and be handy with a gun. There is some primeval pride, I suppose, in hunting down an animal and carrying it home to feed your family. But killing for sheer pleasure is another thing entirely. I put the portly sheikh in that category. He is nothing more than an animal killer who happens to have a lot of money, and who is emulating the nasty English habit of killing off beautiful wild animals in the 19th century to compensate, I feel sure, for inadequacies of a highly personal masculine nature. With his heaps of money the sheikh came to New Zealand to enrich the coffers of Christchurch-based Kiwi Safaris, which hosts what are called “elite, jet-setter hunting parties”. These are elite because the people who sign up for them are rich, I guess, bored with buying baubles for their girlfriends, probably bored with girlfriends anyway, and hoping that a spot of death will give their lives new meaning. The sheikh, on one such delightful journey, killed the stag, whose name was Brusnik, with whom he posed in triumph. The sheikh is a regular paying guest of the company, but this killing was so special that it qualified him, according to the report, to join what is called “Kiwi Safari’s prestigious Platinum 500 Club”. God knows what the honour cost him, since Kiwi Safaris reportedly paid $80,000 for the animal. There was no tiresome tramp through undergrowth with a pack on the sheikh’s back, still less an uncomfortable night on lumpy ground under wet trees, followed by hours of tracking an animal, once sighted, through gorse and scrub. Brusnik was no wild animal. He was shot on what is called a “game estate”. Nor was he of a fierce disposition, such that the mere mention of his name instilled terror in the hearts of all who viewed his magnificent antlers. He was described in a press release as having an “eat out of your hand” personality. Killing him was pretty well killing a pet, by the sound of it, and about as glorious. There’s a row over poor old Brusnik’s testicles, and how they were treated after his death may well lead to court action. They remained the property of the man who sold the stag, and were still valuable for stud purposes, but he claims their harvesting was botched. There is symbolism here in search of a home. Rich man’s “hunting” of this kind is a growing business in this country. Sheikhs are doubtless lining up to have a go. But I find it more offensive than the much detested sport of fox hunting. Foxes at least had a fighting chance against the rabid aristocrats who chased them. Brusnik had no such luck.

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