The Stink Bug Who Came In From the Cold (and Why I Let Him Live)
It is November now, and the patio garden is turning to iron.
My usual, justified reaction to finding a stink bug is instant, focused anger, they are the little brown terrorists of the tomato patch, and their presence is an act of war. My policy is usually one of swift, total eradication.
But this morning, I hesitated.
I found one on my desk. It wasn't chewing my keyboard or even trying to steal warmth from the coffee mug, it was just sitting there, a tiny, immobile refugee trying to steal a bit of heat from the morning sun on the windowpane.
I reached for the usual squish, but I paused.
I suppose in my old age, I am starting to grow soft. This bug wasn't an active enemy combatant; he was just a fellow soul trying to survive the coming winter. The desperation was palpable. He hadn't yet tried to ruin my dinner or my tomatoes. He was only trying to live.
He earned a pass, a moment of unearned grace. I told myself that this was not a matter of weakness, but a recognition of shared struggle. I took his photo instead, leaving him to the warmth.
I wonder if I should have just killed it.