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For Whom the Flyswatter Sings
“Fuck, that’s a big one!” I exclaim as a black shape whizzes past my face. I drop my half-eaten Oreo into my glass of oak milk and run out of the living room. Merlin continues playing on my abandoned laptop.
I look back for signs of the intruder. I catch movement by the side table and resume my swearing. It’s really big. I briefly worry it’s going to land in my milk and ruin my chances of finishing that Oreo.
After retrieving my trusty flyswatter, I return to the living room. Ok, maybe I whine and crouch at the door with my legs crossed like a 6-year old who has to pee. I watch the wasp crawl up the lace curtain covering the window behind the first couch I ever owned as an adult.
It’s part of country living, I get that. But I’d rather deal with the field mouse I found nibbling on zucchini in the kitchen sink the other day. Or the one that died underneath the bathroom cabinet (at least I know what was causing that smell). I don’t react well to flying, stinging insects in my home. They need to keep their business outside or I will turn into a panicky banshee whose shrieks warn of imminent death to nearby six-legged creatures.
I try to give myself a pep talk while my two dogs tilt their heads and watch from the kitchen.
