Little things don’t bug me.

I encourage spiders to build webs in my house because I think their architecture is beautiful. When the sun catches the dew just right, I see the perfection of nature in their woven tapestries.

Today a tiny insect jumped into my glass of Chardonnay.

I found her swimming around when I peeked in. She was drowning. I tried unsuccessfully to fish her out. When she couldn’t be caught, I dumped the full glass out onto my hand.

The wine seeped through my fingers and dripped to the floor. She was still moving, so I knew she was okay. Finally she stood in my palm, a little wobbly but intact. She walked triumphantly to the tip of my thumb. I held it up vertically as she stood there, gathering herself for a minute.

I watched her shake out her fragile insect legs one at a time. I considered dousing her with a water bath to remove the alcohol from her system, but it seemed cruel when she was already getting her bearings. And was the alcohol so bad? Maybe it would help her recovery from a near death dip to have a buzz on.

She shook and cleaned her legs one at a time, then extended her wings and beat them dry. As she popped her bedraggled body open bit by bit, I sensed she was ready to try flying, so I gently placed her on the window ledge. She took several unsuccessful flights on the ledge, short hops up and down trying to get going. It was frustrating to watch but I didn’t know what else to do for her. If I see an insect obviously struggling beyond saving, I always feel the need to end their suffering.

But this one was still fighting.

I was surprised by her next bold move. I watched her back up as far as she could go on the ledge and run towards the edge, getting her gear ready as she covered ground. If she didn’t fly, she would drop and die.

An insect suicide mission.

She took off in an upward arc. Did she survive the flight? I don’t know.

I never saw her again.