One has to say it as clearly as it is: Whoever gets themselves a crocodile has long since lost the compass.
Not a little bit.
Completely.
So somewhere sits a person, looking at a reptile that has been perfectly designed for millions of years to kill, to lurk, to tear apart – and thinks: “Oh, that fits quite well in the living room.” Sure. Between the sofa and the houseplant. Maybe even a little name tag on it. Karl-Heinz, the crocodile.
You rub your eyes.
Or rather: You want to rub them, but actually you want to shake your head. For a long time. Very long. Because this form of overestimation has something deeply grotesque about it. It is the same mentality that believes nature is an accessory. Something you can own, like a designer handbag or an overpriced grill.
Only that this “handbag” eventually shows its teeth.
And then? Well, then it gets uncomfortable. Suddenly, you realize that a crocodile is neither housebroken nor particularly cuddly. That it needs space, expertise, responsibility – things that apparently did not play a big role when it was purchased.
So what happens, as is alarmingly often the case in such stories: The animal is declared a problem.
Not the person.
The animal.
And problems, it seems, are gladly disposed of nowadays. As inconspicuously as possible. As definitively as possible. Zack – get rid of it. As if a living being were nothing more than a failed online purchase.
That is not just stupid.
That is pathetic.
The real scandal is not that a crocodile ends up in a canal. The scandal is that someone seriously believed they were allowed to own one at all. This mixture of ignorance and omnipotence fantasy – that is what leaves one speechless.
One can only hope that such cases have at least one effect: that they make visible how absurd this treatment of animals is. And how thin the line has become between fascination and complete irresponsibility.
Because one thing is certain: The crocodile was never the problem.
It was the human who thought they could have one.