My flat has been bugged. Buggers. I don’t mean surveillance bugs, unless the big brothers in FBI or KGB are using actual bugs as spy drones. I woke up hearing tapping sounds as something was making contact with the blinds. I was about to yell at the cat to cut it or she’ll take the blinds down and they’ll cut her neck, but the cat sat in the middle of the room and her fixed stare was blaming me for whatever on earth she was upset about at the moment. Her alibi was convincing.
I opened the window to air, at which point the cat suddenly went mobile and sprinted with unusual agility to the window in question. There she sat down, bulged her eyes, commenced rapid head movements and was swinging her tail from left to right with great agitation. I’m not against the cat sweeping the floor, though I’d prefer her to use the vacuum instead of her shedding tail. I knew now that there was a bug in the flat. I couldn’t see it, but the cat sees the invisible and I trust her on bugs.
When I put my glasses on, my vision was resumed and I spotted a perfectly visible bug sitting cheekily on the ceiling. The bastard. I harbour an extraordinary hatred for bugs. In moments of intellectual clarity, I may acknowledge that bugs have the right to exist too, but they automatically lose all their rights the second they trespass in my territory. I attempted to vacuum the bug, my favourite terminating method. It didn’t quite work out, so I just battered it with the vacuum.
The cat was disappointed because she planned to spend her day watching the bug and doing absolutely nothing to take care of it. I was disappointed to disappoint the cat, but then disappointment is her chosen lifestyle. She must have got it from me. I was also proud of my presence of mind when facing the invader. It takes guts to gut a bug with a vacuum. Bring it on, bugs, I may be afraid of you but I shall still kill you. No one attacks me with impunity.