I’m inclined to think as much.

Twelve months ago almost to the day, I discovered a wounded dragon on my patio.  Despite my best hopes, what became necessary visited upon me the vexation of doing what had to be done, the painful ending of a sweet and innocent life that faced unconquerable suffering and death.

Now comes the same dilemma with the paper wasp cursed to spend its anguished and short life trying to overcome what cannot be dominated.  As I noted in the comments on that post:

As for the wasp, she’s still there—now more than 48 hours after I first discovered her.  Although I’m no expert, what I can tell is that her wings don’t work properly.  I suspect but couldn’t prove that her second pair are malformed in some way.  A birth defect, I suspect.

She won’t survive and certainly won’t procreate.

And while I certainly can help in such cases when they involve most creatures, certain insects included, this one is beyond my abilities—let alone the care of anyone who has knowledge enough to assist.  That bothers me, as does her eventual fate.

Sometimes nature’s ways aren’t easy to witness.

Even now she remains trapped, incarcerated by the foliage that protects her.  Every attempt to take flight results in the sporadic disasters that define her existence.

She will never fly, never escape.  This tiny spot of shrubbery outlines all that she can know, all that she can experience.

And meanwhile, her body wastes away from thirst and hunger, neither of which can ever be satisfied.

Her drive to procreate goes unheeded.

I stand in witness.

…finally, later than when this post began…

To paraphrase my own thoughts one year ago when faced with similar yet different circumstances:

Had it been possible, I would have cut from my flesh the very life you needed to survive.  But it could not be done.

I […] wished for the miracle that I already knew would never happen.  I could see how badly you […] hurt, […] yet even still I pondered what nature might accomplish given the chance.

[You occupied] a safe place hidden from predators and the sun, an isolated plot of space where I knew you could breathe fresh air, hunt if you were so inclined, escape if the will and energy burgeoned within your small frame.

[…]

Even then I knew, yet even then I denied the truth of what had to be done.

After checking upon you several times during my morning routine, I wished you health and recovery before leaving for the day.  I ensured no harsh sunlight would attack you, that no predator could find you.  It was all I could do save what I did not wish to do.

Why should it be my responsibility?  It required of me an action I abhor, a moment of brutal strength and cold compassion that I did not feel myself capable of.  How could anyone ask this of me?  Why would they?

And so I pondered your fate throughout the day, cursory glances into a mental room wherein stood the dark specter of what I already knew.  I hated him, that ghoulish figure, constantly beckoning to me to practice what I hate most in humans.  But he also showed me it encompassed the best of our species.  Ah, the dichotomy of humanity.

Hellish heat notwithstanding, I bathed in my own sweat later in the day while standing above your still living body.  Why hadn’t you moved from that place?  Why?

Already I knew what was required of me.  No doubt existed in my mind or heart.  I despised them for that, for knowing and feeling that way.  And I resented you.

What nature had not completed in its first attempt I was forced to finish.  The inhumanity of being humane!

I dared not wait any longer.  How scared you must have been, unable to run or hide, to hunt or eat.  How terrified you must have been not understanding why things had changed so dramatically, and why your hunger and fear continued to grow as your body grew weaker.

I cared not to play witness to your demise in such atrocious ways, to starve, to be too exposed, to slowly feel your life ebbing away with every inhalation, every exhalation, and to never understand what lay in store because [you] had been wounded too deeply.

My own tears made the task all the more difficult.  I had no doubts it was the right thing to do.  No doubts at all.

What an ugly place to dwell in when a life is at stake, to have no uncertainty when killing.

And so I chose an implement that would be final, one that would be unforeseen to you, one that would allow me a single motion to complete the most unpleasant of tasks.

What despair you suffered is now over.  What dreadful fate stood before you is now dispatched and forgotten.

At my hands, though, and that is what troubles me.  Doing the right thing often does not equal doing the easy thing, or the thing that feels good, or the thing that we want to do.

Will you ever forgive me?  Can I ever forgive myself?

Even now the deed is done.  Already done, already witnessed by those who watched.  Even now a life has ended.