I was recently reminded of how I did battle with Mothra.
It was a hard fought skirmish, lasting a better part of 45 minutes. Weaving and bobbing all about.
Mothra was devious. Cunning. Wiley like a coyote. Like s/he could sense my next move. And parry defensively at will. Strategy built over generations of evolution, sewn into their very genetic fabric.
But, in the end, I was more than Mothra could handle.
Trapped in the gentle cupping of my meaty paws, it was not to be Mothra’s end. There would be mercy.
Mothra deserved liberty. And so, s/he would be freed outside.
I called out for assistance, as my hands were full, and the door was opened for me. I stepped outside into the dark, into the calm opacity that silenced Mothra’s frayed nerves.
Behind me, behind us, the door slammed shut.
A voice could be heard cackling from the other side: “sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”
In the end, Mothra and I were not much different.