A Message from Ingrid Newkirk

I stayed at a hotel in Europe recently. Outside my door there were eaves, and in the corner of them was a tiny nest of wasps, perhaps the width of a hand. The wasps minded their own business, going out – to look for nectar, I suppose – and returning to the little hive, busily popping in and out but always keeping way up high, above my head. I could imagine they thought, “This is it: We aren’t bothering anyone tucked away carefully in this little corner. No one will mind us, and we are safe from wind and rain here – it’s a perfect spot.”

Just before I checked out, I saw the manager standing there, looking up. He said, “They could sting someone.” I said, “But they’re harmless unless, like anyone, someone goes after them, attacks them, and then they must try to strike back to defend themselves.” As I left, I saw a single wasp flying back and forth, seemingly disoriented. I looked up, and the little nest had been destroyed, sprayed with white foam. Dead wasps were on the ground. I remembered this poem by Rudy Francisco called “Mercy” and wished our species had more of it:

Pass it on, please. Mercy.