There’s a scene from To Kill A Mockingbird in which a rabid dog staggers down the street toward a group of kids. The sheriff, unsure of his aim and skill with a rifle, hands the weapon to Atticus Finch. The lawyer, and father of two of the children in the story, kills the dog with a single shot. Afterwards, he is the only one not celebrating.
Killing a rabid dog is a distasteful, dirty job. There’s always a lot of hoopla in the aftermath, but after the dust settles, there’s no real use for either the dog or the shooter. I’ve done a few distasteful jobs in my time. You know, the kind folks want done, but don’t want to dirty their hands or reputations doing. Trust me on this, it’s no fun and there’s no glory.
I have no objection to hunting down terrorists and tyrants like dogs. Nevertheless, I find something despicable about those that rejoice over the death of another human being even if he is seen as no better than a rabid dog. The world is likely a better place without Colonel Gadhafi, but you won’t find me dancing in the street or campaigning for chief dog catcher because he’s gone.
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