Snails have been feasting on a Clematis in the garden; the plant doesn’t look well.
I often send snails sailing over the wall into what I know is long grass in the neighbouring garden; it has no plants, just some paving, some gravel and a wide, untended prairie, so I doubt the neighbours mind. I realise the snails will probably make their way back to the tasty treats, but at least their imposed vacation provides a temporary respite for the plants on this side of the wall.
Snail One
On my way to work last week I saw a snail crossing the pavement outside the office. “Someone is likely going to step on it,” I thought; “I should probably move it.”
The same question goes through my mind every time this scenario arises: who am I to say the destiny of this creature will be improved by my intervention?
I could move the snail and it later gets eaten by a hedgehog. I would be responsible for setting the snail on that horrific collision course. Perhaps if I leave the snail to its own devices it’ll live a long and fruitful life, decimating gardens with giddy abandon.
So I let it be.
Later that day, on my way home for lunch, I passed its crushed body. Snails don’t move that fast, and it hadn’t gotten even a foot farther before being stepped upon, I presume accidentally. The seeming proximity of its demise to my decision not to get involved has bothered me since.
Snail Two
Yesterday afternoon I spotted another snail crossing the pavement, and this time I did move it. For all I know its journey has now been made so much worse. Equally, for all I know it returned to its self-destructive path and got stepped on all the same. Maybe it’s a reincarnation of the first snail, determined to short-cut its way to enlightenment. Maybe it’s snail Hitler and deserves everything that’s coming to it.
Interlude
Yesterday evening I was returning from the shop and spotted what looked like a slater on its back, wriggling. I carried on walking, thinking that evolution has likely equipped the species with the ability to right itself. I got a few more paces before - almost involuntarily - stopping, turning around and going back to help, first checking if there was anyone else around to see me, and who might think me stupid.
Turns out the slater was not wriggling. The movement was due to its carcass being pulled across the pavement by an ant.
“Understood,” I said, and walked on, only a few moments later realising I’d said it out loud.
To Be, Or Not To Be
And finally, this evening, watching a few episodes of The Next Generation. Glancing up to the darkening sky to spot a bee, clinging to the angle between glass and beading on the outside of the window.
Again, all of these questions ran through my mind: should I try to help, or not? What makes me think it needs my help?
What would my help consist of? I could try to feed it some honey. That might replenish its strength sufficiently for it to return to the safety of the hive. I could even take it inside overnight, where it would be warmer and less likely to be eaten by predators. Then in the morning, let it out in the garden, hopefully in the sunshine, maybe onto the flowering raspberries for some breakfast nectar.
On the other hand, I also recognised that navigating the window opening would be awkward. I could fashion some sort of wire hook to manipulate a spot of honey around to it, but without precise control I might inadvertently knock the bee from its spot, probably into the gutter, possibly containing a pool of undrained water from the afternoon’s downpour in which it might drown.
Back and forth this went. I was barely watching Star Trek for thinking about this bee, and the pros, and the cons. Finally I decided to take account of the difficulties, be mindful of the pitfalls, and attempt to at least offer the bee some sustenance, in the form of syrup - no honey in the flat.
Despite being careful, despite “using the Force”, despite being mindful, and gentle, and full of good intention, the bee was nevertheless knocked from its spot, probably into the gutter, possibly containing a pool of undrained water from the afternoon’s downpour in which it might drown.
Hopefully not.
To Boldy Go
We make choices each day, decisions which have an effect on both our self and the countless teeming creatures that inhabit the fractal scales of our surroundings, from micro to macro.
The reason I feel bad about the situations described above is that the outcome did not align with my intent, and my intent reflects my values. I’m quite happy to chuck snails across the garden wall into what I’m reasonably sure will be a soft landing: the morality of that interaction gives me no pause. Conversely, a snail trodden on - a fate I could perhaps have prevented, at least in the short term - is contrary to my values, no matter how destructive snails may be to the garden.
These creatures share the same evolutionary timeline as us. If we accept the premise that all life evolved on Earth, bees and snails have been around for the same amount of time as humans, in some shape or form, as has every other species on the planet.
Imagine a silouhette of you, on a chart. Now imagine a silouhette of a bee next to your silouhette.
Now imagine the respective heritage for both species, a silouhette for each iteration of the lineage stretching back through time. Assuming evolution is the way it happened, and we’re not the result of a six-day work experience placement God attended that one time, bees didn’t magically spring out of nothingness any more than humans did. Granted, bees may bear only passing resemblance to their forebears of millenia past, but again, the same could be said for us.
On that basis I have a sneaking suspicion that, given the amount of time we’ve had to become as sophisticated as we are, our fellow creatures have a comparable level of sophistication, in terms we may find difficult to imagine and therefore easy to dismiss.