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I don’t know exactly how to describe the colour. It’s a complex mix of dirty mustard at the base with spots of golden yellow on top. Each spot is dome-like in shape and under the light, and even in the shadows, the bumps glisten from fresh ooze and the application of useless ointment. These are the pustules that cover my neck, face, hands and beyond. Yes ...beyond. They stare out at the world like tiny ice cream scoops of brownish pus dripping with poisonous lemony syrup. I want to scream ‘look away’ at everyone I see but I know that only encourages a closer look. The bumps on my fingers have turned dark red and burst, leaving painful open wounds. Did I mention it’s itchy? And burns like fire; like a thin layer of lava or a full body yeast infection. The relief I get from scratching is short lived as every strike means a bump splits open, allowing the poison to escape and spread to virgin skin. The rash is crawling across my body, with new spots every few hours. I can think of nothing else, except the constant burn and itch. I feel disturbed as I wrestle with my impulse to either scratch or throw myself off a bridge to end it all. This rash has single-handedly crushed my goal of living a more Zen and Buddhist existence. I have begun to kill again, my victims in the hundreds.

I’m allergic to gypsy moth caterpillars as well as the actual moths. This year in Ontario, there has been a massive influx of gypsy moths. The caterpillars are eating up the leaves on hardwood trees, stripping entire forests of their summer foliage, threatening their existence altogether. They have tiny spiky hairs (setae) that blow in the wind and pierce innocent bystanders like micro-hypodermic needles. A small percentage of people react to these toxic barbs and I am thrilled to announce that I am one of the chosen ones. I was hoping to be named for a Pulitzer, not a caterpillar pustule contest, but nonetheless, here I am, a winner. I HATE them. It’s a strong word that somehow still seems to fall short of describing the intensity of my feelings. How about, I f’ing hate them?

Several years ago I began reading The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama, a long form interview with psychiatrist Howard Cutler. I have yet to finish the book but I enjoy it in bursts, as needed. I reach for it when the mood strikes me, eating up the nuggets of wisdom like bread crumbs along a path to fulfillment and peace. The Dalai Lama is wise and witty and a master at turning the simplest experiences into the most profound lessons. Buddhism focuses on kindness and by all accounts, that is aspirational for me. I have always loved the stillness and calm that surrounds Buddhism and its followers. There is a connection and respect for nature that makes perfect sense to me and I want, or wanted, to be a part of that loop. I watched any progress I had made at attaining a Buddhist mindset get crushed the same moment the plump body of my first caterpillar victim exploded under my Birkenstock. I smiled.

One down.

Like most people I hope, I’m not all monster. I’ve had moments of success, where kindness and calm were my default. But now I’m in a bug vs. lady version of Home Alone - I’m Macaulay Culkin and the caterpillars are my home invaders. I’m almost enjoying the fight, creatively looking for opportunities to strike. At this point, I need to dig deep to recall any goodness left in me. I am covered in caterpillar blood.

Not long ago, I caught a horrifying spider from the ceiling in my bathroom and carefully cradled it in a paper towel. I carried it gently down the stairs and out the door, placing it in the front garden. I guess you could say we’ve become friends since this little fella, or his arachnid doppelganger, seems to visit repeatedly, each time begging for another paper towel airplane ride. My old chum. What a little scamp.

Then I stomped on a fat, juicy caterpillar on the side of a country road at the cottage. I smiled as the brownish green innards oozed out the side of my shoe. A day or so later, I walked the same route and found the dried corpse and the stain on the asphalt and smiled a second time, slightly wider.

As a special education teacher, I have de-escalated a 190 pound teenage boy with autism who had become overstimulated at the sound of music coming from down the hall. He charged at staff, screaming with arms up, looking to strike as he struggled to self-regulate. Soft words, kind eyes and a comforting gesture. A reminder to choose a preferred activity or toy and suddenly, we were connected again, crisis averted, trust and calm restored.

A gypsy moth dangled from a tree above my head on its silk string. I ran for the scissors, cut a swath of duct tape and wrapped the sticky square around the acrobatic web spinner until it was completely enveloped in the tape, a square little package, snug as a bug...then I squished it between my fingers until I felt its body flatten and liquefy. It was disgusting. I tossed the tape bundle in the trash and went back to my book.

Once at a fast food restaurant, I rushed to help an elderly woman with dementia shuffle into the women’s bathroom to be cleaned up after a public accident. She had become belligerent with her husband and refused to go to the handicap bathroom with him. I was able to calmly step in and offer my help just as she started to drive her cane into his foot in disagreement. I met her confusion and anger with direct instructions and a promise to be helpful. I returned her to her husband after a clean up.

As I walked through the woods, attempting to raise my heart rate - in an effort to battle the COVID 15, I saw two gypsy moth caterpillars wiggling across the path ahead of me. My pace was quick and I had already passed them before I realized what they were. I stopped, doubled back, which is a no-no during cardio, placed myself next to the slow moving creatures and squashed them one at a time, imagining arcade type bells and whistles sounding off as they changed from solid creatures into gooey puddles beneath my weight. I returned to my up tempo walk, feeling rather energized.

I cuddle my dog every single chance I get. I talk to him. I whisper in his ear. I brush his hair, buy him treats and toys. He is an animal but sometimes I can barely believe he’s not my actual baby. Many years ago, my youngest son dared to ask if I loved the dog more than I loved him. That was a tough moment. As all my kids maneuver through their teenage years, I find myself repeatedly pondering this same question myself. But in the end, I love them all, animals and children. Love. I can love.

I bashed a moth cocoon on one of our trees with a piece of wood.

I put out a tiny bowl of water and tried to hand feed, one drop at a time, a bird that lay dying in our yard after hitting our window. A small mercy to a beautiful creature.

I gave my son a BBQ lighter and asked him to torch the gypsy moth caterpillars that were climbing up the side of the cottage by the firepit. He is 14years old and should be brimming with adolescent rage and curiosity about his power in the world. Not to mention, excited to be given permission to play with fire. He declined my invitation to murder. “I can’t kill them.” Then I spotted the white powdery cocoons on one of the tree’s.

“Burn them!” I said. Or hollered. Not sure which.

“I can’t! What if there are babies inside?”.

He moved away from me. Rightfully concerned with my state of mind as I muttered, “Who cares.”

I burned them myself. Kids today.

I am trying feverishly to add up all the times I have cooked or baked and delivered food to friends in need, or helped babysit or move furniture. Or told an off-colour joke to lift someone’s spirits. Or made a donation to a favourite charity. Or? Or? Is any of it enough? I don’t know which side is winning in me - the good or the bad?

Please remember my face this way. Nature - I still love you.

After the township sprayed the area in an effort to thwart the return of the gypsy moth next year and save the trees, bodies lined the paths and the shores. We sprayed our property as well. More nature-channel type carnage. I don’t care. With many of our trees wrapped in duct tape, any surviving caterpillars that may try to climb up for a feast will get stuck and eventually die. Starve to death I assume. Don’t care. I have started a heavy dose of steroids to stop the attack on my body from this brutal allergen and hope I’m not physically scarred from these creatures. I hear there are now support groups for people like me who suffer this type of reaction from gypsy moth caterpillars. I’m afraid to join. My behaviour may be encouraged.

The Buddhist approach to ahimsa, or non-harming behaviour, applies to all small animals and microorganisms; no killing, on any level. So it’s official. I have failed. But maybe there’s a way back for me.

“When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.”

― Dalai Lama XIV

I found another spider in my house. A small one this time. Sitting on the stairs. I scooped it up with a Kleenex and took it out to the front garden, hoping it might find my other friend and live a full life outdoors. Maybe I can build back some of my good karma. One tiny sentient being at a time.

This could take a while.

“Whether our action is wholesome or unwholesome depends on whether that action or deed arises from a disciplined or undisciplined state of mind. It is felt that a disciplined mind leads to happiness and an undisciplined mind leads to suffering.”

― Dalai Lama XIV

I calculated my murders, doubling back to smash, taping trees to capture, and cutting perfect squares of duct tape in order to entomb my enemy. This disciplined approach brought about the suffering of the caterpillars and moths, that ‘s true. But now, I’m scratching less, bleeding less, in less physical pain and sleeping a hell of a lot easier at night. I’m happy. That was the goal, no? And who attacked who here? I don’t think the Dalai Lama or Siddartha Gautama have ever been this itchy. Maybe I am already on the right path - now that it's cleared of caterpillars. Peace and love.

By Carol Sloan

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Gypsy Moth Caterpillars - DIE!