The Royal Hunt of the Cockroach

My years in Manhattan (long ago, my children) were an exciting and happy period. I dropped out of grad school (/long story), took a low-paying and undemanding day-job, moved into my own little rent-stabilized apartment on the Upper West Side (remember when barely-employed people in Manhattan could afford an apartment?) and took over the kitten that a friend found himself stuck with when the roommates who brought her home moved out and left her behind.

I was taking voice lessons and singing lots of Gilbert & Sullivan, a bit of opera, and some seasonal religious music... what more could I want out of life?

Nobody thought about the price of oil back then. My apartment was on the 5th floor of a 9-story building, and the super kept the heat blasting so that it would make it up the pipes to the top story - so to keep from melting, I left all my windows open all winter.

One day I was greeted at the door by a very excited cat, who kept rushing to the window, then back to the door, then back to the window. Sure enough: a pigeon was inside, perched above the sill. I'm afraid Kitty was pretty disgusted with me when I trapped the bird in a shirt and pushed it back out the window.

We were reconciled the day the giant flying cockroach flew in. Living across the hall from the trash chute, I was pretty used to roaches... but this was HUGE, and it FLEW.

I was nervous, but Kitty turned out to be a Mighty Hunter. I never knew cats pointed, but Kitty tracked that creature, found it, and showed me where to get at it, like the best-bred English Pointer. I flushed it out, it flew and hid again, Kitty tracked and pointed, I flushed again... until, with team-work, we got it trapped in a corner and I made the kill.

Then it suddenly hit me: that was one flying roach. What will I do when its mate seeks revenge?

The day came, and soon. There I was in the tub, naked, reaching for the soap, when I looked down to see a huge roach just like the one Kitty and I had killed, there in the drain at my feet.

I could kill it with a sponge - but the sponge was on the sink, and the sink was forward and to the left... could I reach it without either stepping on the Fearful Flyer, or setting it flying into my face? Clever creature to attack me in the shower: no chance to call on Kitty for reinforcements. (I've had cats who don't mind water, but Kitty was not one of them.)

I knew I couldn't spend the rest of my life standing in the shower turning into a prune - so I took my courage a deux mains, reached for that sponge, and succeeded: I found that the roach's mate, softened, no doubt, from grief, was an easy prey, even in my solitary state.