They say when Albert Schweitzer was in Africa and ants would make a path toward a morsel of food he’d accidentally left on his table, he’d move the morsel to redirect, rather than kill the insects. All right Albert! My hero! I too believe in sparing all life — well, except those lives determined to cause me suffering to any degree, such as hornets, crocodiles, enraged rhinos, anything that enjoys chowing down on human flesh, particularly mine, and certain species of fish with really large mouths containing hundreds of really large pointy, saw-toothed teeth. And yes, I eat hamburgers, wear wool coats, leather shoes and used to pretend I was Marlene Dietrich while prancing about in Aunt Adelaide’s real feather boa, never once wondering how many birds gave up their lives for that fluffy, beautiful fashion statement.
Spiders, wonderful creatures, pig out on really loathsome insects, making them very agreeable entities. I can never kill one. Except, however, for those times when they crawl into my nightgown to snooze while it’s on a bathroom hook, and they bite the cruppolas out of me when I put it on, usually in a fairly tender spot I’d prefer no insect ever use as its personal attack tarmac.
My poor beleaguered family rolls their eyeballs in patient resignation at the endless array of upside-down glasses all over the house with all manner of creatures under them awaiting their freedom, although my dear family have asked, well maybe begged, that I scoop up the varmint.
