Possum is making a ruckus in the kitchen, chasing a large housefly that buzzed in here a few minutes ago. I cheer him on: killing bugs is one of the few chores I've assigned to our cats.
... minutes later:
Silence in the kitchen. I see no signs of the fly. I ask Possum if he ate it. He gives me a look and starts licking his paw, quietly suggesting that he has consumed his prey and is having a postprandial wash. I consider that modesty is yet another of Possum's sterling attributes — along with being a fierce bug hunter.
... 10 minutes later:
The fly resurfaces and starts tearing around the ceiling, out of reach of both Possum and my rolled-up Sports Illustrated. I consider that I should be using the recent Vanity Fair with Katie Holmes on the cover, since I had great success years ago in squashing a large, threatening millipede with a September InStyle with Katie on the cover. I was alone that night, my husband having abandoned me for a DittyBops concert. I took a break from screaming to throw Katie on top of the bug and she saved me. September InStyles are always as thick as phonebooks, but I piled a tall stack of magazines on top, just in case. My husband was assigned to remove the corpse.
... a half-hour later:
Possum follows the fly around the house until the fly takes a rest. Possum forgets about the fly. I suggest to him that he has a short attention span. He assures me he doesn't, that he can spend hours thinking about art, food, and bicycle rickshaws. I consider that I spend hours thinking about Possum.
... another half-hour later:
Wendy has emerged from under the bed, where she sleeps, and is interested in the fly, which is buzzing around over my head. I consider that a fly is better than a millipede or a clothes moth: both species inhabit our apartment, along with ladybugs with fatal illnesses, and an occasional kitchen ant family. I consider that this apartment is surprisingly bug-infested; we should move before cockroaches and tarantulas arrive. Or we could get a bat.
... two hours later:
Possum and Wendy are more interested in their kibble than in the fly, which is still bothering me, always out of reach. I consider that a mosquito would bother me more. We've made it through the summer without any of those in the apartment, at least. They would nest in our bedroom fireplace and bite us well into November until we figured it out and sealed the flue.
... another hour later:
No sign of the fly. Possum is lounging and Wendy is snoring. I consider that the fly has apparently died of boredom — as will my readers if I don't end this now.