As I opened the door and stepped out of the garage just now, my foot smashed something crunchy. I realized immediately that I had just stepped on a snail, and was horrified — not because snails are gross and slimy, but because in all likelihood I had just killed it or severely injured it.
I scooped up the wet slimy mess and carefully placed it in the bed surrounding the cherry tree, a meaningless gesture to a creature that was dying and most probably in agony; I didn’t know what else to do other than feel like a horrific murderer, even though it was an accident and I had no idea that it was lurking outside the closed door.
Isn’t it odd, the way we can accept our actions when they are intentional: spraying ants with insecticide, eating chicken. But the accidental killing of a snail, a bird, a spider… they really upset me for some reason.
