I had my hands full of coffee, walking back from the Fuel kiosk in Hunter Street, through the courtyard behind the ASBBank tower and Grey Street.
She was making purposefully for the grating over a gutter, her desire to escape the light and noise of the city in the morning obvious.
I should have rescued her, swept her off her feet and taken her back to my place, where she could be safe. But no. In the grips of caffeine deprivation I walked past, with only a couple glances over my shoulder and a slight slackening of pace to signal my concern. I did not want to spare the time, and (to be honest) I was a little worried that in her state she might lash out at any potential benefactor. And then I was worried about my work colleagues, some of whom would immediately have reacted with fear and hate when they saw who I’d brought with me.
But I’ve felt guilty ever since. I should have done something. And all I can do now is the pointless expiation of this blog posting.
Where did she come from? What was she doing there? Where did she think she was going? Where is she now? What became of her?
Realistically, I suppose that the half-life of large adult female Wellington tree-wetas in a treeless court-yard full of fast-moving cars; rain-filled gutters; and weta-intolerant pedestrians is unlikely to be more than a few hours.
So I can’t imagine she’d have survived long.