Inches away from taking weapons of mass destruction to the Stinkbugs this morning. And it's possible that over the years, your gardener might have selectively bred a Stinkbug that has some kind of cloaking mechanism. Either that or your gardener's eye hand coordination and mental alertness has aged to the point where he has become Stinkbug Clumsy, there are billions of them in the Tomato and he only squished one. This time next year he'll be lucky to be able to find the front door, so it could well be time to give consideration to the End Times.
Have to think Being is more like walking a tightrope than it is aimlessly
wandering the Savannah, and when time comes to fall off the tightrope Being has
no place to go. The book is closed, it's the end, and in my mind there is peace
rather than regret in this answer. Then the memory of a person lingers in the
minds of others, and better if those memories are mostly good memories. Of
epitaphs I have no desire to see written of me, this one figures high, "He
admitted defeat and used Sevin on his Stinkbug." Absolutely no chance of
Sainthood with something like that on your permanent record.