Requiem for a moth.

We’re having a plague of moths this year. They are huge, fuzzy and leave their powder all over me. Yes me — apparently I am magnetite to moths. They fly into the bathroom when I am getting ready for bed and, instead of sensibly swan-songing all over the light fixture, they fly into me at great speeds, leaving little plumes of moth-dust in the air as they hit and bounce off me. Gah!

I used to think moths were rather wonderful: they were mysterious and beautiful night creatures, always geting the short end of the beauty stick compared to butterflies. That was before I developed a moth-gravity. Before they flew onto my toothbrush, strafed me on the toilet and fluttered on the back of my neck while I was carefully removing a contact lens.

Gah! They ping-pong between my computer screen and me, bang-bang. The pinball wizard has nothing on these moths. I bat frantically at the air with National Geographic, my novel, my keyboard and very occasionally I connect. The *thwack* of moth being hit into the stratosphere is very satisfying… until they return, and seek me for comfort, clinging groggily to my pyjamas and hair, recriminating.

I trapped one under the base of my stand-mirror in the bathroom. It was huge, and particularily persistent, and having screeched and batted and waved and magazined it into submission, I couldn’t quite bear to thwack it flat. Or I couldn’t get a good angle with the MEC catalogue, I’m not sure. In any case, I covered it up and left it there.

The next night, I called upon my husband, who has no fear of any bugs and mocks me heartily for mine. “Please dispose of a moth” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding me” he said. “Nope.”

I gave him directions and a magazine, and retreated to the other side of the bathroom door. I was pleased to hear some of the same screeching and waving and thwacking and crashing that usually accompanied my moth-attacks. I couldn’t resist poking my head in to watch the fray, though I suffered at least one moth-bounce to the face for my curiousity.

Finally, it was done. Over. Finite. Requiem for a moth.

Poor Steve: “it was beautiful. Beautiful. It was beautiful and I killed it.”

“Oh well.”

*flush*

I love my husband, first for killing the moth, then lamenting it.

But I hate the moths.

One thought on “Requiem for a moth.”

  1. Lor, this story is SO well-written, and hilarious were it not for the squeamish shivers of empathy I felt for you. They leave powder? Blech!! We’ve had some of those massive moths too, I almost stepped on one coming out of work one night. Recently I’ve been watching the streetlight at the end of my block and these huge flecks of bright light that hover below it like UFOs, wondering what the heck could be so HUGE because I didn’t think they were birds, until I put 2 & 2 together and realized they were these fuzzy monster-moths. Thankfully, I have a screen door and screens on my 3 windows, so most of my horror has been from afar. Only the little ones get inside and they usually don’t bother me, just provide entertainment for Simon. I would be horrified if the huge ones came in and harrassed me in my precious home, I might even feel violated! I know I certainly do with the spiders I’ve been having in my bathtub…Simon doesn’t do anything about them anymore other than watch them, perhaps I should feed him less and he’d be more inclined to catch & eat them. 😉 Don’t your cats do anything about the bugs?
    I hope that the moths are gone before I come down, or that they ignore me, otherwise I will join your magazine-flailing moth-warrior fight lest we lose our peace and dignity!

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