As I grow older, it becomes more difficult to accept the uncaring nature of what seems to be a majority of humans when it comes to other species on the planet. From mosquitoes to redwoods, we seem bent on destroying the other biota on Earth. They get in the way. They block the view. They are more valuable as commodities or oddities or collectors’ items than they are as living things. We buy and sell them. We kill them with impunity, as if we are the only creatures in creation that have the right to be alive.

We are wrong.

Humans seem to have the imperious thought that we can survive everything we do to our environment, so it doesn’t matter what happens to the rest of the living.

We are wrong about that, too. As we kill off other species, we are killing ourselves as well, bit by bit. We just don’t know where the tipping point is. How many trees can we cut before we begin to suffocate from lack of oxygen? How many rivers can we plug shut to salmon and other spawning species before the oceanic ecology collapses and we lose that food source we and much of the planet so depends on? How much toxic stuff can we dump into the atmosphere, the ground, the water and our bodies before we sterilize the planet?

Earth doesn’t really care whether our species survives or not. On our scale of time, Gaia is immortal. She has at least 75 billion years before the sun absorbs her. Before that, she is set to support carbon-based life for a billion before the sun’s radiation increases to a point where the oceans evaporate and the water cycle goes completely away.

We will miss that, but the longer we can put off our own extinction (Sorry, folks. We only have about 600,000 years left, no matter what we do.) the better we should like it. But, will we really allow ourselves that? At the rate we are killing off creatures and plants, we may not last another 20,000. So, party on, dude! Right?

Wrong again.

Our individual genetic structure determines how long we will live. But, it’s how we treat our body that determines how we will live out the latter part of our lives. As a species, we seem to be determined to live out our old age like an emphysemic chain smoker, confined inside with an oxygen tube up our nose.

Everything is connected, and for every animal we blithely run over on the road (slow down!) or gas or poison or kill for sport or just because we can, our own connection becomes more tenuous. We are expendable, and when Earth has had enough of us, we will be expended.

This little rant was precipitated by a bear. It died on the road sometime last week, left by whoever hit it to die. It managed to drag itself out of traffic and laid on the verge of the pavement until someone saw a chance for some profit, stopped and cut the paws and head off and removed its gallbladder (worth about $10,000 dollars in Asia, where they are considered medicinally valuable).

Finally, I stopped and dragged it into the ditch and out of sight. My reasons for this are based on many things, but mostly in respect for the animal, and I admit I came late to the act this time. But I have dragged lots of dead animals off the highway, and dispatched the mortally wounded and hopelessly crippled struggling to stand or somehow get themselves out of the danger that has already hurt them beyond redemption. I’ve hit my share of animals. Maybe more than my share. But I have never left one to lay on the road or drag itself into the woods and die alone.

As the driver who hit them may have cursed the crippled creature as they drove off (“ Stupid f***ing animal! My poor car! What will the insurance company do?”), I curse the driver for being an uncaring, irresponsible human being. And every time I do this, I rage and cry. I’ve not gotten inured to it. And I hope I never will.

I’m being harsh and judgmental, and I don’t really care. If we don’t respect all life on the planet as best as we can, how can we respect ourselves? And if we don’t respect ourselves, how can we expect our species to endure for the next 599,999 years?

As we watch Russia and Ukraine and Israel and Palestine go at each other, it is apparent that there is a lack of understanding in those conflicts. We kill what we don’t understand, and I think we don’t understand ourselves very well at all.

Sandy Compton released his latest book, Her Name Is Lillian, this month. Find his books and other writings at bluecreekpress.com.