Survival of the flittest
by Albo P Fossa ✍ May 27th, 2015
Swallows gather at street corners. That old familiar knock on the bulb in the garage. Bedside readers: a repeating flap against the lamp.
I wonder that they don’t sail toward that giant lightbulb in the sky.
Our early warning: the small sort, wool eaters. We saw a zigzag across the TV view and down to the rug. Then two corpses in the closet. Uh-oh. Into the cedar chest we placed the few woolen items we have left after the last invasion, three or four years ago. We carefully inspected each before storage. One rug showed signs of chomps: we gave it a brutal washing.
Eaters and readers. Pestilence. I suppose a relatively mild winter is all they need. Kitty Hippy rejoices in sport. She chases the Millers (readers) and (ick) gulps them down. (Good kitty!)
Meanwhile, we try various hopeless strategies to keep them out. Like, say, ensure lights are off before opening outside doors, and pass through quickly. (Hah!)
Likely, a dead one will end up in a tube of one of the folding blinds. No escape.
An online search reveals, along with “identifying”, many entries on “getting rid of” them. Among meaningless lower life forms, they’re not favorites.
What good are they? Kitty gulps, wool chomps, and bird swallows.