Even though I may have my doubts about it, I'm well aware of the fact that I'm showing the thousand-and-one little signs of becoming more southern, thank you. I realized very well that last week I told a new friend of mine (yes, from the "north") that her kids didn't have to call me "Mrs. Last name", but that they could call me "Ms. First name", because "that's how kids do it down here". And it only seems like yesterday that husband-dear and I did the "hmmm..interesting" head-nod when a neighbor told us that exact same thing. And just last night, the love of my life and I both looked up when we heard someone on television talk about "ice tea". Apparently, we've become so assimilated that we were both convinced that the entire country talks about "sweet tea", and only Europeans use the words "ice tea", that this came as a real surprise. You mean that not everyone talks about sweet and unsweet tea? Really?
But the absolute, total, complete, and utter proof that I am becoming more southern occurred a few mornings ago. And it involved a cockroach. One of those really big, long-legged, hard-shelled, brown cockroaches.
As you all know, cockroaches are far from my favorite insect. In fact, I used to think that if there is one animal that in my opinion could be wiped from the surface of the earth forever, it would have to be the cockroach. And I didn't put up with people telling me that would upset the food chain or the bio-ecological balance of the planet. People who said that had obviously never encountered a Georgia cockroach in their bathroom while wrapped in nothing but a towel.
Knowing all of that, you would think that a few days ago, when I encountered a cockroach in our office / guest room in the wee hours of the morning, I would have ran, screamed, reached for the nearest can of raid, and then jumped around yelling and hollering until of the boys in the house would have disposed of the body. But I didn't. And to this day, I'm not sure how to explain that, or what I did afterwards.
I should probably explain that the cockroach was on its back, with its legs up in the air, wriggling. It looked so helpless and sad. I could just hear it saying, "Please, please, please, help me up. Please! Help! Me! Up! Please! I have two hundred kids to feed, you don't understand..please!". I'm a sucker for helpless people and creatures, and so I couldn't bring myself to squash it. Although that may have also had something to do with the fact that I was in bare feet. Anyway, I let it live, and then pondered my options. Killing the thing with Raid was not an option as it was positioned right in between all of the electrical cords for our laptops, printer, router, and whatever else husband-dear has hooked up out there. Plus, I was worried that if I would let it out of my sight, it would miraculously hop up right, and crawl under a piece of furniture, only to give me a heart attack a few days later when it would venture out. And since it was still laying there, looking lost and scared, I still felt bad about killing it anyway. So what to do?
And then I remembered. Zoe and Shelby. Our dogs love playing with bugs. And I mean they love it. They will chase a bug around the back porch until they're worn out, and if the bug tries to scurry into the grass, they will simply dig a hole until they find it, or we catch them. Our entire backyard is testimony to their love for bugs. So while keeping my eye on roachy, I clapped my hands and called their names. The dogs immediately came scampering up the stairs, and eyeballed the little brown bug under the desk. Shelby didn't quite get it, but Zoe was intruiged by the roach, and after sniffing it cautiously, took the bug in her mouth, and without any prodding on my end, ran down the stairs and out the back door. Her sister followed hot in pursuit, and together they chased the cockroach around the backporch until it finally got away.
And me? I was relieved the stupid cockroach survived. Yes, you heard that correctly. Call me a sissy city girl with some southern country spunk or somethihg, but that's what it is. Sheesh.
4 comments:
Maybe his name was Gregor. Yes, I finally read some Kafka, at your prodding.
There will probably a thousand more for the dogs to play with:-) You could catch them, mark their backs with different colors nailpolish for a roach race:-)))or roach road rage race.
Well, how do you actually know it survived? Being played with by the dogs doesn't really say he/she would survive..:-)
His name is definitely not Gregor, her name is Zaza. For all Americans, just ask Dixiechick and she'll explain. For all Dutchies one word: Pluk!
Having just returned from Surinam I now know what you mean by roaches :-)
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