The Killing Kind

I used to have no problem killing bugs I found in the house. But I’m finding it harder and harder to do so. Which is ironic because the idea of death doesn’t actually bother me all that much (I see it as a necessary part to the cycle of life). Nowadays, when I kill bugs–out of fear or because I was too lazy to find a more humane solution–I feel a deep sense of shame.

Killing for defense, I understand. Killing for food, I understand as well. But killing a creature because it is trespassing, even when it poses no great harm to you? Yes, it’s within my rights to do so, but I can’t get the idea out of my mind that I should be the “bigger person,” so to speak. I am the sturdier one. I will live longer and fewer things will threaten me. I am built more resilient.

Shouldn’t I use some of that resilience to make the short life of smaller creatures just a little better and a little longer? What does it cost me really?

I’d probably be singing a different tune if I was in the midst of an infestation. But for now at least, while choosing mercy doesn’t put me in danger, I’m going to put my bug friends outside.

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