Just Following Orders…
The call came from the camp commander. There was an infiltrator on base, and we were to remove him. Igor’s new jeep was the best placed vehicle to do the job, with its state of the art beams and terrifying sound system. We were both armed to the teeth, but were wary nonetheless of what we were being told to do. As we asked for a description of the invader, my mind drifted to the film Shooting Dogs, set during the Rwandan genocide. The title referred to the fact that UN soldiers stationed in the country were not permitted to lift a finger in order to help the victims of the slaughter, but were allowed to cull the dogs that scavenged among the bodies of the dead.
Because our invader was also but a dog – a mutt, a scavenging mutt that had made our base its home. After a brief search, we soon found it, rummaging in the dirt, and gently coaxed it into the back of the jeep. From there, we took it to the camp commander, who we assumed had some secret kennel in his office or some other cunning solution. But there was nothing of the sort. Instead, he told us to take the dog to the road behind the central bus station in Ramle, and to leave it there. In the most Moral Army in the World, we do not shoot dogs – we merely evict them.
My past was coming back to haunt me. A few months earlier, I had got into a fight with some friends in Eilat over what to do with an injured cat that had been discovered on the side of the road. I wanted to leave it behind; my friends insisted that we care for it. So this mission was my punishment. Remembering the barren consequences of my decision in Eilat, I decided to offer resistance. “Can’t you get an animal shelter to come and pick it up,” I asked. No, he replied, I don’t have their number.
Throughout all this, Igor stood on impassively, which was strange given that he was rather emotional when we were trying to convince the dog (who we belatedly named Michel) to join us in the jeep. This, combined with my excitement at the prospect of my first armed trip off base, meant that my resistance faded no sooner had it started, and soon we were on our way. As we approached the gates to the base, Igor told me not to worry – the dog would be back by the morning.
Off into the minaret-dotted night we went, and within five minutes we had reached our destination. In an unlit street behind the station, Igor crawled out of the vehicle and said his goodbyes to Michel, while I kept my eye on the clock in case any of Ramle’s residents thought they were witnessing a rerun of 1948. My intensive training had all been leading up to this moment, and I wasn’t going to fail now. Michel scampered off, while Igor shrugged his soldiers and got back into the car. “He’ll be back in the morning,” he prophesised again, before blasting out my ear-drums with some Russian hip-hop.
We reported our successful completion of the mission to the commander, who congratulated us for our sterling efforts to defend the State of Israel. He said that they perhaps even surpass the efforts of the pilots who bombed Syria the other week without even knowing what they were being sent to target. At least you showed an interest in what you were doing. That dog was a menace to the safety of the soldiers, like a Qassam exploding every minute. It’s not as if he had any space to roam around here, after all, given that it takes six minutes just to drive around the base. He was a constant menace.
With a warm feeling of patriotic pride, I headed off to order some take-away, having missed dinner for the cause. Early next morning, I wandered over to the front-gate to pick up the newspapers, to be greeted by the pastoral image of Michel nosing around. Igor’s prediction had come to pass. The dog had returned. And this time, when the commander found out, he didn’t hatch any grand plans, or suggest putting a bullet in its neck. He just shrugged and let out a wan smile, a gesture that suggested Michel’s right to come back would not be violated. He returned in peace, and now he is here to stay.
