I feel a twinge of remorse every time I kill something,
whether large or small. I regret when I bisect a worm in the garden, not simply
for the sake of the garden, but for the sake of the worm. I imagine his name
was Sven. Even mice, which eat and poop and are generally a nuisance. The snap
of a trap leaves me feeling a little sad and a little guilty. The slitting of a
chicken’s throat definitely qualifies. This twinge is healthy. It is what separates
us from serial killers, sociopaths, and members of the mustelid family.
