Dear Lucy,
This is the story of a Bumblebee whose life I was unable to save, or end. I’m not proud of my actions and have learned much from this episode, pointless though it may seem to some.
During my sunny walk last week, I saw the Bumblebee on the pavement, in peril. He was circling around and around - obviously Bumblebees are male. I couldn’t bear to leave him there suffering, but also couldn’t bring myself to put him out of his misery.
I’d like to feign morals: What living thing has the right to kill another? But the truth is that I’m squeamish and simply could not place the take-away food lid I’d found on the side of the road over the bee and stamp on him.
I thought about my sister whose empathy and urge to care for living things is way stronger than mine. She wouldn’t have hesitated to help this Bee over to the other side. It also made me think about Mark, your pseudo-brother-in-law who died recently. At his funeral people talked of his kindness towards living things and how he’d rescued several birds and other animals. I was inspired by his legacy. “I will be a better person when it comes to animals in distress,” I thought triumphantly.
It’s not that I’ve not tried to help animals in past. I’ve just not tried hard enough.
I once reported an injured Pelican in St. James’ Park by sending an email to the park. They actually replied and it turned out it wasn't injured but had an in-growing flight feather.
I met that very same Pelican by the way, in the park, not that long after the feather incident. He jumped up on the bench I was sitting on with a massive thud and just sat there next to me as if it was the most normal thing to do. You realise how big Pelicans are when they are cosying up to you on a park bench.
I was a little afraid but also a little thrilled and sat there for at least an hour whilst trails of tourists went by and took photos. Sometimes children would sit between me and the pelican, resting their hand on my knee as they turned to look at the Pelican, as if I was part of the attraction. I wanted to shout at them, “He’s mine, this Pelican is mine!” You’ll be pleased to know I didn’t.
How did I know it was the same Pelican? Because they told me – in the email – that it was donated from Prague Zoo and there, on his chunky Jurassic-looking leg was a tag saying ‘Prague Zoo.’ That’s how close we were on that bench. I think the Pelican knew I’d emailed the park and we shared a special moment.
On another occasion I told a disinterested guard at Clapham Junction station that there was a pigeon in distress, “Over on Platform ‘x.’” But of course, I don’t know if he did anything.
Anyway, I tried to pick up the Bumblebee to inspect him further. What on earth I thought I was looking for I did not know. I failed to pick him us as he couldn’t make it onto the lid, but I did at least interrupt his incessant circling, giving him a small break.
Next, in classic style, I attempted to pass on the problem to someone else and flagged down a woman walking purposely down the road.
I explained the situation, takeaway food lid in hand and she looked at me with a cocktail of unpleasant emotions laced with just a little concern.
She looked at the Bee and said, with utter disinterest, “Yes, looks like it's in its death throes.”
She then scooped up the Bumblebee, dropping him as she Egg and spooned him on that cardboard towards a bush. Once she’d got the poor creature back on the cardboard, she then flicked him onto the shady part of the gravel driveway we were standing next to.
“He’ll be alright in the shade,” she said, handing back the lid to indicate she was done with this ridiculous situation. She then put her headphones back on and resumed her fast walk.
I stood there, mouth slightly ajar, food lid in hand wondering what had just happened. I was now also in a worse position. If I was going to be brave and finish him off, I’d now have to retrieve him from the gravel and return him to a flat surface, no doubt causing him further stress.
So, I decided to leave him there, in distress perhaps, but at least now, he would be in peace and in the shade.
I went to see my boyfriend Chris that evening and he told me that Bees are actually quite resilient and can sometimes just get dehydrated. “He might be alright,” he said.
I can't tell you how buoyed I was about this, but then hesitated. Chris being a kind person could be trying to protect my delicate sensibilities. But he confirmed he had a couple of friends who were, “Fond of Bees,” and that was good enough for me.
Small side note: As I’m walking through the park, speaking this letter into my phone for the first draft, I’ve literally just been ‘buzzed’ by a Bee.
So, I felt good. I was glad I hadn’t trampled the poor thing if he just had a bit of sunstroke.
The following day, I walked the same route – home-made Bee rescue kit in hand - to see if the Bee was still there, hoping that he wasn’t. But yes, he was still there in his shady, gravelly grave, completely dead. Had he been alive, he would surely have shuddered to see me approaching once again, like the author in Misery as Cathy Bates comes through the door with a tray of soup and a mallet.
As I walked away, I gave him a little Eulogy and apologised for not being a better person and not helping him and most importantly, for actually making him last moments on this planet much more stressful.
As it turned out, my relationship was also in its death throes – the conversation about Bumblebees one of the last we would have. For now, its is laying on the gravel of a metaphorical driveway. I’m giving it a moment in the shade, but I’m not giving up hope that it might recover and I will be going back to check.
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