Thursday, October 16, 2014 

Many years ago, when the faithful and brilliant Lorenzo was my companion and spirit guide, our beautiful home in NJ was besieged with cluster flies—in the kitchen no less. Horrid things. I set out to kill them with anything I could find: newspapers, magazines, you name it. I recalled having seen this phenomenon up in a cabin in Hunter Mountain one winter. I called an exterminator, who assured me they would be gone in two weeks. There was no known reason for this “convention,” but it happens. Lorenzo tried to stop me from killing the flies one day. He jumped up, put his paws on my arms, and looked at me pleadingly. I was beaten. Lorenzo and the flies were in collusion. One day, I recall stealthily picking up a newspaper. I was sure to make no noise. Not a sound. I would whack the first fly that moved. I was poised—ready, aim… But the thunder of paws was swiftly followed by a jump at my arm and an imploring look, “Don’t kill the flies!” Lorenzo to the rescue. I put down the newspaper. I was beaten. Who were these flies? Who was Lorenzo for that matter?

Ever since that experience, I am given to second thoughts about killing any insect. This is not to say that I have given up my practice entirely, but I give pause. I reflect. And the instinct is diminishing more and more as time goes by.

Mom, however, is a natural born killer. She and my brother—who never grew out of the practice—kill anything that flies or crawls with nary a thought to their brief life spans or their purpose on earth. Most of the time, Rob will carry a creature outside. Recently, I asked him to remove a rather large spider whose suction cup feet looked like army boots on skinny legs. Unfortunately, the spider did not cooperate and did not survive the ordeal. Rob lost sleep that night. I, still somewhat unrepentant, did not. But I am moving closer and closer to respecting the sanctity of all life. (But don’t try me with a venomous snake or other lethal creatures. I am not quite that evolved.)

Mom, on the other hand, will not rest until you, “Kill it! Kill it! Here, take this newspaper!” And so it goes. Yesterday, there was a stinkbug in my car. I had taken mom to the podiatrist. As it turned out, it was pouring rain when we left. Just as mom got into the car, so did a stinkbug. The cry went up:

Wait a minute! There’s a bug. Kill it! Kill it!

No mom, don’t! It’s a stinkbug. Don’t you dare kill it!

I flicked it out with a tissue. There was no way I was going to allow her to kill a stinkbug in my car and raise up that acrid stench. I have no love for stinkbugs, and I don’t want their scent to draw others to my lovely Greta Carbo, my car of 14 years! My chivalry this time was not driven by love or respect for the bug, but by love and respect for Greta.

Many a time, the cry has gone up: Rob, kill it. There it goes! Here’s a tissue. Get it! Get it! Why mom implores Rob to kill a bug is beyond me. He is far less likely to kill one than I am. But she is relentless. This “instinct” is something that continues to distinguish my mother. There is little of her left since her memory disappeared nearly entirely. But this is one part of her that remains—and regrettably so—as I strive to find a kinder place in this besieged world of ours.