Compassionate Living

By Andrew Smith

I recently drove through a little bit of Missouri and took my dog along with me for companionship. He's a great pal when we're out in the woods. But this trip he proved to be a poor travelling companion.

For seven hundred miles he wouldn't sit down, lay down or look out the window. He just stood there uncomfortably in the passenger seat, staring at me and passing gas.

After awhile -a long while, seven hundred miles- this began to get on my nerves. I tried taking him for a walk, giving him some water, giving him some food and yelling at him to quit it, but nothing seemed to work. As soon as we got back on the road, there he was again, staring balefully at me, standing on the seat and fouling the air which we both had to breathe.

Sometimes I could hear him let one rip, but most of the time he was just silently effective. I kept the windows down a great deal.

By midnight I was so frustrated I stopped at a rest area to sort things out. Should I put him in the back of the pickup? He hated riding anywhere but in the cab, and I knew it. He'd be miserable in the back. Plus, the back was full. I'd have to repack, just for him to have room. On the other hand, if he could drive I'd be willing to ride in the back, just to get out from under that stare and breathe some fresh air.

I went into the men's room while I thought this over. I was standing at a urinal when I happened to notice that there was a cricket trapped in the urinal beside me. The little chirper was swimming in a pool of urine and spit, trying to get out, but unable to.

I looked down at the cricket and I could feel his hopelessness. The next time somebody flushed that toilet, he'd be history. He would be an ex-cricket, whatever that is. All that life gave him was just to be a little cricket, and now he was on the verge of losing even that.

I felt sorry for the cricket. I've always liked crickets. I like the sound of their chirping on a summer evening. They're like old friends singing in the dark. They cause no harm that I am aware of. I have no reason to despise crickets. In fact, I began to worry about this one.

It may be a great waste of time to fret over a bug in a toilet. In fact, it is probably so. But if there is a judgement I think we will not be judged on how we treated the mighty, but on how we treated the weak and helpless. Any fool would pick up a Jesus or a Buddha if they found them hitchhiking. But how many would pick up a worthless bum? Or a worthless bug?

So, suddenly, I was faced with a moral dilemna in that deserted toilet, in the middle of Missouri, in the middle of the night. Was I being stupid to even think about such a thing? Had I been driving too long without oxygen? Should I just reach in and grab him? What was wrong with caring about a bug?

It's a good thing the toilet was empty, or I'd still be conflicted over this. I gave the matter some thought and decided I should definetly get the cricket out, but definetly not by using my hand. So I had to think of another way. It came to me then, like an inspiration, that I could make my little friend a bug ladder by draping a piece of toilet paper down to where he was and hanging it over the side. Then he could climb out and be free and do whatever it is a free cricket does. Chirp, I imagine.

So I ran into a stall. The toilet paper was empty. In the next one it was jammed. But finally I got a long streamer of toilet paper for my bug ladder. I was thinking that this was pretty clever -the kind of thing you read about in "Hints To Heloise". I was thinking that maybe if I could help a cricket, why who knows what would be next? Feed Africa?

I draped my bug ladder triumphantly into the toilet and stood there for a second to watch. Sure enough, the cricket paddled over to the toilet paper and began to pull himself up on it. I felt good. I had done something good. Something really, really, really small that was good, but at least it was a step in the right direction. I bade the cricket farewell and stepped away from the toilet towards my truck.

And here's where technology comes into the picture. That toilet had one of those infared auto-flush things on it, which I didn't consider, and as soon as I stepped away it automatically flushed, sweeping my cricket and bug ladder to a dark and watery oblivion.

So I didn't save the world after all, but damn, I came close.

I went back out to my truck and headed wearily down the road. And my dog stood on the seat, staring at me and passing gas, but I didn't make him ride in the back. I just rolled down the window from time to time.

Such was my great compassion.