“I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”  — Edna St. Vincent Millay (Dirge Without Music)

Returning from my walk last Friday night, I noticed blue police cruiser lights flashing in front of my apartment and people lining the sidewalks. My initial assumption involved possibilities such as some sort of domestic disturbance or a serious driving offense. As I neared the scene, I asked two bystanders what was going on. All I heard were the words, “A moose just crossed the road,” before two shots rang out in quick succession. I thanked the people and reached my front porch just as a third shot rang out. I gasped and put a hand to my chest. It was clear that, whatever the animal’s dilemma had been, it was now over. I wondered what effect all this was having on a little girl who stood just a few feet away, rooted to the spot, her hands covering her mouth in shock, sadness or a combination of both.

As my eyes filled, I kept them glued to the opposite side of the street, where blue lights continued to flash for some time, and people, local and state police included, milled about, moving in and out of the darkness that hugged the riverbank. Eventually, the cruisers left, the groups of people disbanded, and a pickup truck carrying several men arrived, presumably to take the animal’s remains away. I went inside then and sat on the sofa in my dim living room. My cat jumped up next to me, and I ran my hand over her soft, warm fur, felt her heart beating, heard her purring, all the while knowing in my heart of hearts that, just a few feet away, another animal lay who would never again greet the light of day.

They had no choice, someone said. It was a question of public safety, and so I lay my head down that night thinking of all the unknowns and the variables, most of which I’d never know much more about. But the one question that kept running to and fro in my mind, much like a lost and confused moose, was, might there not have been another way? Had all other avenues really been exhausted before reaching the final most arbitrary and most devastating solution of all?

A killing, no matter who or what it involves, always upsets nature’s balance. We humans are as much a part of that balance as is any other creature, and one might argue that pulling a trigger three times to drop a wayward moose is as natural an act as a tree falling on, and killing, it. For in a biblical sense, were humans not bestowed with dominion over all other creatures? Did that awesome responsibility also include justifying a knee-jerk reaction to a lost, confused creature whose intention was never to cause harm but to simply get to where it was going? While we are willing to acknowledge that development and sprawl have displaced many such creatures, we seem not to be quite as willing to weave that understanding into our thinking when a situation such as a moose running down a main thoroughfare develops. Why is there a good end to some such incidents and not to others? And why is there not some kind of protocol when it happens, which is often in areas not quite wild, not quite tame? Or will we continue to eternally consider all wild animals expendable in certain situations and their “dispatch,” to use the official word, the easiest and most beneficial solution for all concerned?

These are the questions, among others, that haunted my sleep that night during which I awakened often and still with that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and my spirit greatly disturbed. I tried to imagine the moose running back and forth, hesitating, turning, indecisive, terrified, cornered and surrounded. I tried to put myself in its place, to pretend that I was trotting down a highway, exhibiting the same magnificent fearlessness that is its domain in the wild and wooded places where it is indeed master of its surroundings, but that serves only to seal its doom when it is out of its element.

I wish I hadn’t heard those shots, but I did. I wish I hadn’t known about the moose, that I had taken a drive somewhere that night instead of a walk and had come home long after the fact to the safety of my living room and reading lamp. But I didn’t. And it occurred to me that, had I cut my walk short, I might even have seen the moose myself, which would have been an awesome experience, but which might have rendered what followed even harder to take. To hear the shots was enough, for they continue to reverberate through my mind each time I allow myself to return to that moment and will for some time to come.

Nature heals and replaces what is lost, in this case as in all others. And the cruelties and hardships that go on daily within her realm are not lost to me, nor will they ever be. I did not sleep that night, in part because I couldn’t, but also because of a choice I made ”“ to hold my own silent vigil for that sad creature whose only crime was to wander into territory that, to some, it had no business being in. I won’t presume to know why or by whom the decision was made to end its life, but I can choose how to feel about it.

And I do not approve, nor am I resigned.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Springvale, who enjoys exploring the woods of Southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.