This morning I woke up at Un-Godly o' Clock with the distinct impression that I was being watched. Having two cats, both of whom possessing the distinct conviction that they know my schedule as well or better than I do, this is not an unusual affair. What was unusual was that, when I opened my eyes, there was no cat in my face.
Now wide awake, even if the sun was not, I took it upon myself to get a head start on my to-do list which, as of that moment, consisted primarily of coffee, yoga, a shower, and then breakfast. Coffee and yoga were successful, but presently the rest has become problematic.
Upon entering my kitchen, I discovered that my cat, Iason, had taken up residence in front of the refrigerator. Iason is a creature of habit, and as a general rule, prefers the coffee table, the corner of the couch, or behind the couch in the wee-small hours of the morning, so I was surprised to see him there, tail thrashing furiously. He was looking intently at the gap between my refrigerator and my cabinets, and I assumed that he had spotted a twist-tie from a bread bag that had fallen off the counter, and was contemplating the best way to attain it.
I was incorrect. It was not a twist-tie. It was a cockroach.
It was the granddaddy of all cockroaches, probably two inches long and half as wide, and it was staring at my cat as intently as my cat was staring at it, its antennae matching the fanatic motions of Iason's tail. I had walked in on the Animal Kingdom's version of an old western stand-off, and there was no predicting the violence that may have unfolded in my kitchen at 9:30 on a Sunday morning.
Naturally, being a brave sort, I shrieked. With one hand, I grabbed Iason by the scruff and pulled him away from the maw of the beast's lair, and with the other, I reached for the cabinet under the sink where my ant & roach Raid lives.
My cat, entirely unimpressed and probably a little disgruntled, because he's "over 6 years old, and is really too old to be dragged around like a kitten, mom," wriggled out of my grasp and onto the counter so he could look down on the beast from the top of the gap. I sprayed the crap out of the one strip of kitchen floor that I will probably never be able to reach to clean properly and I felt no regrets.
The beast scuttled behind the refrigerator, leaving me with only the barest hope that it managed to run through the puddle of spray that I'd lined along the back wall before it scurried out of my reach.
Well that's that, I thought. Because as long as I never saw it again, I could assume that it died behind the refrigerator--died a quiet, lonely death where it could reflect on the mistakes that it made in this lifetime, particularly entering my home through whatever means for whatever nefarious purposes.
Determined to make sure that no roach was ever again possessed of the idea that it and I could coexist harmoniously in the same habitat, I pulled everything off of my kitchen counters planned to wipe them down with some sort of Scrubbin' Bubbles/Fantastic/Multi-surface hybrid that I bought because it promised to remove tough grime as well as disinfect.
I returned to the kitchen just in time to realize that I was mistaken: the cockroach had not died a quiet death. The cockroach was very much alive, and it was angry. I realize now that that little bastard hadn't just claimed the gap, it had claimed my entire frickin' kitchen, and it was going to fight me for it.
I pause here to reiterate that this was a BIG cockroach. This was a massive, Florida-sized cockroach. This bastard was so big that I could HEAR the tiny click of its many feet pounding the linoleum of my kitchen floor. It was so big that I could HEAR it hissing at me, waving its antennae menacingly, promising me a painful demise if it got a hold of me. And that bastard ran straight for me.
It was like an old time dragon, defending its territory, risking life and limb to show me that I was not welcome in its domain, never mind that I'm the one that pays rent. (Let me also assure you that this bug knew exactly what it was doing: I dodged to the right, he swung left, I circled around back toward the bug spray, and he cut me off. )
On the other side of the kitchen, Iason was thrilled to notice that his new toy had made a reappearance. So thrilled, in fact, that he stopped bashing my other cat, Macy, on the head (which is his other favourite thing to do on Sunday mornings), and came over to investigate.
So, unfortunately, did Macy.
So now between trying to get to the counter with the bug spray, trying to fend off a cockroach that was out for blood, I was trying to keep two cats from a) fighting over who got to play with the cockroach and b) trying to make sure that neither of them put the cockroach in his mouth, in case it was coated in bug spray from my first and seemingly failed attempt to kill it.
Luckily, the entrance of two cats gave me the opening that I needed. While the cockroach assessed its odds (and judging by the way it tore in the direction of the cats, decided that they were still pretty good), I reached over the impending fray and grabbed the bug spray. Then I swept both cats back with one leg and sprayed at the roach until it retreated into the far corner of the kitchen, just under the dishwasher. I sprayed it several times more, just in case, waiting until the little bastard flipped itself on its back.
I never actually thought about why roaches flip over when they die. Is it because they hope to lull you into a false sense of security and then plan to grab at you when you least expect it? Is it the human equivalent of stop-drop-and-roll? In this case, I like to think that it was a sign of submission: some cockroach body language for "I yield. Your army was too great. You can have your kitchen back."
I cuddled both cats close to me as I watched the beast take its last breaths, watched the frantic waving of its legs slow. I did this not only to make myself feel better about a big roach being in my kitchen, but to keep the cats from trying to eat the now, definitely, toxin saturated bug.
A sense of relief has filled me now, but the bug's journey isn't complete yet. I still have to gather my courage to pick it up off the floor and give it a proper burial. I'm sitting on my kitchen floor, watching it from the corner of my eye. It hasn't moved in a while, so I think it's safe to call it. Time of Death: 11:17.
The beast is dead, long live the beast.
