The first time I ever saw a cockroach, I was 16 and staying in the dorms at the University of Houston. I got up off the toilet and turned around and there it was! That sucker was a good three or four inches long and it could fly! Eeeek! I don’t think I slept a wink the whole five days I was there. I just sat in the middle of the room, on top of my suitcase (as if that could stop them from reaching me), with the light on, playing cards all night with my roommate.
I didn’t see another one again until I moved to Florida about 15 years later. Because of the hot, humid climate, they were everywhere. Only, they gave them the cutsie name of Palmetto bug. It didn’t help. I still screamed the first time one brushed against my bare foot while I was feeding my cats. Fortunately, they only came in when it rained hard, because the apartment management came in and sprayed every month.
I soon learned that it didn’t pay to try and smash them, because they were so hard that they usually didn’t die anyway. So, I just got in the habit of scooping them up on the dustpan and throwing them outside. I eventually got to the point where they didn’t particularly bother me anymore. Then, I moved to Colorado and didn’t have to worry about them for a long time, but when I moved to Mexico, there they were again.
By then, however, after living with three cats for about 15 years, I had developed a different attitude toward the animal world. The longer I lived with them, the less I wanted to eat them or kill them. (I should qualify that… I do still eat meat, but I am moving steadily toward vegetarianism). I had long since stopped killing ants, spiders and mosquitos, and I no longer had the inclination to squash or poison someone just because they were bothering me or invading my space. Yes, I realize I said “someone” and not “something.” There’s a reason for that.
When I looked into the eyes of my cats, I saw a person, that is to say, a soul. And I felt compassion for those souls. Now, I know that isn’t unusual. A lot of people feel compassion for cats, dogs and other cute, furry creatures, especially their own pets. But what about the critters that ain’t so cute? Let me tell you about my pet cockroach.
This happened at a time when I only had one cat left. I was living in Mexico, and in spite of the humid climate, I didn’t get many roaches, because I lived on the second floor. But one summer, we were getting huge amounts of rain, and it wasn’t unusual for me to have to scoop one or two of them up every day and toss them out the door. After a while, the rains stopped, and I didn’t see many any more.
Then, one night, I came into the kitchen and turned on the light, and there was a rather large cockroach sitting on the drainboard. I went for the dustpan and went for it, but he was too fast for me. He got away that time, but I swore I would get him the next time. We played this game every night for about a week or so. I tried outrunning him. That didn’t work. I tried a slow approach. That didn’t work either. I tried explaining to him that I wasn’t going to hurt him, just relocate him. But that didn’t work either.
As I looked at him from across the room, I could actually see the fear in his eyes. And it was then that I decided to stop tormenting him. From then on, when I would come into the kitchen at night and see him there on the drainboard (he was always in the same spot), I would just say “hi” and get on with my business. I would even joke with my friends that now I had two pets, a cat and a cockroach.
Unfortunately, “he” soon started reproducing, and my house was overrun. I had to do something, because I couldn’t go on sharing my house with an ever increasing number of cockroaches. I guess if I were as compassionate as I aspire to be, I could, but these are my failings. I was hopeful, though, because I had heard about a type of Chinese chalk that you could use to draw a line on the floor in front of doors and windows, and this would prevent the cockroaches from coming in. I thought, if I did that, then no new ones could come in, and I could eventually scoop up all the live ones and throw them outside without having to kill any of them.
I went to the neighborhood Chinese store and asked the store owner about the chalk. She said that the way it works is that when the cockroaches walk over it, it gets into their joints and causes them to slowly die. That sounded just as bad or worse than poisoning to me, and it was with a troubled heart that I set some traps and eventually got rid of my problem, but I was haunted by those fearful eyes and the glimpse they had afforded me into the soul that inhabited that crunchy, little body.
How about you? Could you feel compassion for a cockroach?
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