I like to think we’ve become dab hands at murdering the moths that encroach upon our expensively-rented-but-decidedly-modest flat.
We have all manner of trap and deterrent about the place. We’re also swift at smiting them the old-fashioned way when they’re not wearing their invisibility cloaks.
This morning, however, I spotted a moth in the base of our wardrobe. I pressed him with my index finger, which is usually enough to obliterate their fragile insect bodies but something about the action didn’t feel right.
I’m not talking about morality here. What I mean is that it didn’t feel right, physically, on the pad of my finger. I’ve become so accustomed to moth murder that I could tell by touch that his soul had already left his body and fluttered away to Moth Afterlife.
(I very much hope Moth Afterlife is a different place to people afterlife. I do not want any kind of reunion, thanks.)
I tend to assume, optimistically it seems, that we kill the moths shortly after hatching, but today’s moth had clearly died of old age. I hope he was happy living out his golden years in the Moth Florida of my silken suit linings. Moths tend to shit silk though, don’t they? It’s equals-pequals really.