The Otters and the Jackal

On the bank of a winter river, two otters worked as a single animal: one drove a great fish into the shallows, the other pinned it there, and together they hauled it onto the mud, gasping and enormous.

First OtterWe caught it together. We should split it evenly.

Second OtterYou drove it toward me. I am the one who held it. The larger share is a question of who did the harder work, and I did.

The argument grew teeth of its own, and while it did, a jackal wandered up, drawn by the smell of a decision waiting to be made.

JackalFriends, friends. I have judged greater disputes than this over lesser suppers. Let me divide it, and let neither of you say the other was favored.

The otters, tired of arguing and eager for a verdict, agreed. The jackal set the fish before him and, with great ceremony, drew a line.

JackalThe head is not worth fighting over — take it, you who caught him first. The tail is a poor thing too — take it, you who held him. The body, being the only part actually worth the trouble, I will keep myself, as my fee for the wisdom of the division.

He trotted off with the better part of their morning between his teeth before either otter had finished blinking.

The otters were left with a head, a tail, and a lesson about the difference between a witness and a judge. Settle what is yours between yourselves — a stranger's fairness always seems to leave something in his own mouth.