So on 9 February 2014, the young giraffe was given a last meal of some quintessentially Danish rye bread before being shot in the head with a bolt gun. All in front of an audience of zoo visitors. After this, staff conducted a public autopsy, enthusiastically attended by crowds of Danish children and their parents curious to see the inner workings of the creature. Marius was dissected and fed to the lions – again, in full view of all who cared to watch. The world’s press was perplexed at what they saw as the Dane’s macabre callousness. One letter to the Guardian newspaper in the UK noted that ‘the public execution of Marius and his equally public consumption by lions’ made ‘Danish noir crime easier to understand, psychologically…’
I talk to Peter Sandøe, professor of bioethics at the University of Copenhagen and former chairman of the Danish Ethical Council for Animals, to get his take on this. Peter was a key commentator on Marius-gate and in common with The Viking and all the other Danes I’ve met, he struggled to see what the fuss was about.
‘Denmark was an agricultural society only two generations back, so we think of animals as animals,’ he tells me. ‘Most people with an agricultural background would feel the same way [about Marius] – the giraffe was a breeding male who was not going to be used in breeding, so then you slaughter it. It would be the same with sheep – you can’t have more than one ram in a flock, otherwise they will fight. It was the practical approach,’ says Peter.
He was surprised by the international media furore (‘I even got a letter comparing me to Adolf Hitler after one BBC interview, which I felt was a bit much!’) and suspects that it was the graphic aftermath that non-Danes found particularly shocking. ‘People from overseas felt squeamish about the fact that the giraffe was cut up in front of an audience including children and that his bits and pieces were fed to other animals. But people should be able to face these things. If they don’t like to see an animal being cut up but are happy to go to Marks & Sparks to pick up a packet of plastic-wrapped meat, then they’re hypocrites.’
I tell him I’m guilty as charged on this one (though I’m also delighted by his cultural reference to my mother country’s favourite fancy supermarket and pant purveyor). Danes, it seems, are happy to watch their animals be butchered before they eat them, and vegetarianism is practically unheard of. ‘Most people eat meat here,’ admits Peter, ‘and there are significantly fewer vegetarians in Denmark – around 3–5 per cent – than in the UK, where the figure’s 10 per cent.’
Danes don’t feel guilty about eating animals, and their carnivorous diet may also contribute to their happiness levels. Vegetarianism has been linked with higher rates of depression and anxiety according to research from the Medical University of Graz, Austria.
‘We don’t tend to get as sentimental about animals here as people in, for example, the UK,’ says Peter. I wonder whether this psychological distance protects Danes from distress when creatures inevitably get hurt or die. If you don’t feel pain when Bambi’s mum gets shot or Simba’s dad carks it in The Lion King, then of course life’s less upsetting and it’s easier to be happy, I think. And if you can eat your beef burger without concerning yourself too much about how happy the cow was during its lifetime, well, then you’ve got one less thing to worry about.
But not all meat eaters in Denmark are cock-a-hoop. In 2014, Denmark’s agriculture and food minister Dan Jørgensen decreed that all animals used for food should be stunned before they were killed. This effectively banned ritual slaughter as prescribed in Jewish Orthodox and Muslim laws, which both require animals to be intact and conscious when they’re killed. In practice, the rule didn’t change much. The final Danish slaughterhouse allowing animals to be killed without pre-stunning closed in 2004. Ever since then, Denmark’s estimated 7,000 Jews have imported kosher meat from overseas. Most of the 210,000-strong Danish Muslim community still view animals stunned before slaughter as Halal, providing concussion wasn’t the cause of their death (population figures from US Department of State – the Danish government doesn’t officially record religious affiliations). But the principle of the case riled Jews and Muslims, who united in protest. They claimed that the legislation was less about animal welfare and more about the politics of immigration and integration.
For many Danes, the issue was clear: killing an animal should be done as quickly and as painlessly as possible and it’s their belief that this can’t be done if the animal is conscious when it’s killed. Jewish and Islamic media outlets internationally accused the Danish government of Islamophobia and anti-Semitism, but high-profile figures from both faiths within Denmark avoided using either phrase. The Danish response was more measured, perhaps due to an understanding that a secular bias is just ‘The Danish Way’.
‘It was an easy law to pass,’ says Peter, ‘as ritual slaughter without pre-stunning had not been practised in Denmark for about ten years anyway, so it was more about sending a signal without really getting into trouble with religious people. It was a clever political move. Like Tony Blair banning production of mink for fur in the UK – there wasn’t much mink production in the UK anyway anymore so it just made him look good.’
Ah yes, fur. The Danes’ relationship with fur has been another thing I’ve been wondering about, and I was surprised to see a few grande dames in ankle-length animal pelts when we first arrived in bleak midwinter. I’ve since learned that Denmark is the largest mink exporter in the world and Copenhagen is at the centre of the fur trade, with China and Russia as its biggest clients. But surely this goes against most Danes’ principles on animal welfare?
‘Actually, fur production is quite sustainable,’ says Peter. ‘The mink have the same breeding cycle as they would in the wild, they’re not transported anywhere [which can be distressing for animals], and they’re fed fish leftovers and chicken pulp from old laying hens. Once the mink fur is removed, their flesh is used to make biodiesel.’ This is used to power buses in The Big City. ‘Not a bit of the animal is wasted,’ Peter assures me, ‘plus the industry creates a lot of employment, so the government isn’t going to shut it down.’ Denmark’s 1,500 mink farmers can charge 20 per cent more for their pelts than for those bred elsewhere because of the prestige attached to Danish fur. This is credited to a carefully controlled diet producing a more lustrous fur and Danish designers championing skin in their collections. There aren’t animal rights protestors attempting to shut down production in Denmark, as there would be in other European countries, and most Danes don’t mind a bit of fur. As a liberal Brit raised during the era of Peta-inspired paint-chucking, who was once cautioned to ditch leather shoes and refrain from eating tuna before interviewing Stella McCartney (true story), this all comes as a bit of a shock.
Hunting, too, is perfectly acceptable and is a popular pastime in Denmark for folk from all walks of life. ‘It isn’t a class thing here like it is in other places,’ Peter tells me, ‘and people accept hunting provided the animals are shot and die quickly before being taken home and eaten, so there’s no cruelty. I think fox hunting with dogs and horses, which was never practised in Denmark, has been an issue in the UK because it’s considered an upper-class thing and the way the fox dies is cruel.’
Peter tells me that he thinks animals get ‘put into boxes’ in the UK and the US (metaphorically speaking), ‘so that people care very much about a lost puppy or an animal at the zoo, but then they go home and eat pig. People get a bit touchy-feely and feel very strongly about kittens and giraffes and things. In Denmark, this tendency to divide up animals is less pronounced. The majority of people think that it’s important to look out for an animal’s welfare and we don’t like them dying for no reason but we’re not going to humanise them.’
Cruelty to animals is illegal in Denmark, but interestingly, bestiality is not. ‘Anyone who engages in sex with an animal where this will hurt the animal physically or psychologically can be punished,’ Peter explains, and so to date, Danish politicians simply haven’t seen the point of going through the hassle of writing up
a new law to ban bestiality outright. ‘However,’ Peter tells me, ‘it should be said that opinion polls show that a majority of Danes want a ban. So this may eventually come.’ (In fact, as this goes to print I learn that the Minister of Food and Agriculture, Dan Jørgensen, has announced that sex with animals will be banned in next year’s Animal Welfare Act.)
There aren’t many places left to go once you’ve covered hunting, fur and getting biblical with a bull all in the space of an hour, so I attempt to bring things back to the rather more pedestrian by asking for his take on dog ownership in Denmark.
‘Not sex with them,’ I add hastily, alarmed to be in a situation where this even needs clarifying, ‘just training and things…’
As someone with a vested interest and a poorly behaved pooch, I’m keen to find out how Danes feel about dogs and whether they’re the one animal that my new countrymen and women might get ‘touchy-feely’ over. Kristeligt Dagblad newspaper recently reported that Danish households have more four-legged members than ever before, with 600,000 dogs owned by Danes and 70,000 new ones registered each year. There’s also been a 300 million DKK (around £34 million or $58 million) rise in the amount Danes spend on their pets, according to Statistics Denmark. There are proven psychological benefits to having a dog, with owners having lower blood pressure, lower cholesterol and fewer medical problems than other pet owners or the rest of the population, according to research from Queen’s University, Belfast. Which must make Danes happier, I think. I see a lot of dogs where I live and the whole of Jutland seems perfectly tailored for them, with handy hooks for tethering leads and regularly replenished water bowls outside many local shops and cafes. There are also designated beaches and 200 so-called ‘dog forests’ where you can let your dog run unleashed.
‘Many Danes have dogs,’ Peter tells me, ‘and of course they care for them very much and they are part of the family. I suppose they may get “touchy-feely” about dogs. But a difference to UK and North America is that it is less fashionable to acquire a dog from a shelter. Most Danes still buy a pure bred or even a pedigree dog. People seem to like to know where their dogs come from.’ And when Danes have invested in a pedigree pooch, they like to make sure that it’s well-behaved, apparently. Training, it has now become clear, is key for our mutt – as well as for our standing in Danish society.
I ask whether Peter counts himself among the happy Danes I’m researching and he tells me that he’s very happy indeed: ‘I think people in Denmark generally are, although we do like to moan – we’re spoilt! Personally, I’d say I’m a nine out of ten. Maybe ten out of ten professionally.’ And there you have it. Even a man who spends his days defending giraffe deaths and getting hate mail comparing him to Hitler is happy in Denmark. Now that’s job satisfaction.
Still bemused by all I’ve seen and heard over the past few days but determined to get my own animal behaving a bit more Danishly, I come home intent on finding a canine camp to teach him some manners.
‘You’re going to school,’ I tell him.
‘yeowungggggg,’ he protests.
‘It’s not just me who has to give this living Danishly thing a go. You do too. We’re four months in and I haven’t seen any evidence of Danish integration…’ I scold. ‘It’s time you started evening classes as well.’ I sign him up and training starts the very next week.
Our first class involves a shouty woman in a utility waistcoat trying – and failing – to teach our dog how to fetch, sit, rescue a child from a forest and stand on top of an upturned washing-up bowl. No one’s quite sure why. The next morning, I stumble out of bed to find that Lego Man has given the dog our washing-up bowl. The dog still isn’t interested in using it as a podium. Instead, he’s chewing it.
‘The dog seems to be eating our washing up bowl,’ I remark.
Lego Man looks at the dog, then points to the pile of envelopes that have just been delivered: ‘Yes, but he’s not eating the postwoman. Baby steps…’
* * *
Things I’ve learned this month:
Danes don’t do squeamish
Animals are just animals in Denmark, unless they’re dogs (and they’re well-behaved)
The Danish Way is The Only Way
…and outsiders will have a job on their hands convincing Danes otherwise
Cows can’t dance
5. May
Traditions & Getting Told Off
Against a drizzly sky the colour of bleached slate, several strapping men are busy erecting white poles at regular intervals along the street as we make our way to the bakery. The dog takes the trouble to sniff a few of them before marking his territory on as many as he can manage. This makes for a far longer, wetter, walk than usual.
By the time we’ve selected our Sunday morning pastries (yes, this is our gluttonous life now – snegles all round…) and untethered the hound from the handy dog hook outside, we see that a Danish flag has been hoisted to the top of each pole. White crosses suspended on blood-red rectangles ripple and buckle in the breeze, transforming the road into a majestic sweep and making the place look far grander that we’d ever imagined it could.
‘What d’you reckon’s happening? D’you think we’re in for a royal visit?’ Lego Man asks, hopefully.
I can’t help thinking that however down-to-earth Denmark’s Queen Margrethe is reported to be, a Sunday morning jaunt to Sticksville-on-Sea probably isn’t top of her list of royal engagements.
‘Maybe…’ I wonder how to let him down gently.
We start walking and the dog gets busy bothering my jealously guarded brown paper bag of baked goods. The rape is flowering all over Jutland this month and the fields around us have turned a vibrant yellow. As we round the corner and come closer to home, we’re greeted by the familiar sight of our local church: a beautiful, stark, typically Scandinavian building surging up like a bright white rocket against the grey sky and citrine fields. The place is all lit up from within, despite the fact it’s 10am, and there are several dozen cars parked in the field next door. This is not normal. Usually, the church is just there. Looking nice but not doing much or showing any signs of activity or purpose. Like a well-designed Scandi-style ornament. Only now there are signs of life. The dog stops in his tracks and lifts a paw, ears pinned back, tail straight out behind him, alert.
‘I haven’t seen anyone go in there since we arrived,’ Lego Man observes, as the dog strains at his leash to get closer to the action. We’re just contemplating the strange arrival of actual human beings to our village, when a low growl starts up, quiet at first, then getting louder. For once, it’s not the dog. I can make out the sound of an engine, combined with pumping music and a throbbing bass. It grows to a deafening crescendo until we see, droning into view, an enormous, buffed, black Hummer. The windows are tinted, gangster-style, and it’s followed by the long, glossy nose of a stretch limousine, edging its way around the corners of our country lane.
We’re used to seeing tractors in these parts, or family cars towing trailers or boats. Once, Lego Man spotted a Beetle (a thrilling day…). But never, since our arrival in Denmark, have we seen anything like this. A few American muscle cars, a Cinderella-style horse and carriage, and another couple of limos arrive, looking incongruous in such a bucolic setting. The church car park starts to look like a snapshot of Leeds city centre on a Saturday night, or a hen do convention. Teenage girls in prom dresses plus a few boys in suits spill out and onto the grass, struggling to avoid getting mud or grass clippings on their finery.
The dog is beside himself. (New people! To play with! Who might possibly have food! This is BRILLIANT!) It’s the most excitement he, or we, have had since moving here. With a small whimper and a shimmy of his tail, he makes a break for it, surging forward so forcefully that his lead is wrested from my pastry-laden hands. Before I can say, ‘Well so much for sodding dog training…’, he is gone.
In cinematic slow motion, we watch him bound gleefully towards the group of teens. It’s like a miniature version of
the opening credits to Black Beauty, only with a far messier outcome all-but-inevitable. Lego Man leaps into action like some sort of highly impressive dog-owning super-hero, dropping his bakery bag and starting to give chase, hands slicing the air Usain Bolt style. I try a different tactic, inspired by our dog training classes. I tear off a morsel of pastry and hold it out, calling: ‘Here boy! Come!’ in the hope of luring him back.
But the dog is oblivious. Lead trailing behind him, tail wagging, tongue flapping out of the corner of his mouth, he bounds up to the petite blonde who’s just stepped out of the latest limo. She makes the mistake of greeting the dog with what he takes to be encouragement and so he reciprocates. By leaping up and planting two muddy paws on the front of her pale, pink, silk dress.
‘Nooooooo!’ Lego Man cries out in horror.
But it’s too late.
Limo Girl and her friends do some shrieking. I do some shrieking. Parents of Limo Girl remain astonishingly calm and do some patting down of the pink dress to assess the damage. There is much confusion as to where the dog has come from until the crazy English couple wearing wellies and clutching baked goods finally arrive on the scene, panting, perspiring, and muttering ‘Undskyld!’ (‘Sorry,’ in Danish), over and over again. We’re just trying to work out how to say something along the lines of, ‘We are mortified! Please, let us prostrate ourselves, here in your fine Danish mud, and buy you a new dress, or at least pay to have that one dry-cleaned…’ in Danish, while getting the dog back on his leash, when Limo Girl’s mother seems to magic a suit carrier out of the back of her car. The girl nods and unzips it to reveal an identical dress in pale blue. Holding the dog firmly by the collar now, we watch in amazement as the girl is then ushered into the back of the blacked-out limo. She emerges, seconds later, resplendent in baby blue following a quick costume change.
‘Did that just happen?’ Lego Man is asking.
The Year of Living Danishly Page 11
