There’s a rustling in my house that has nothing to do with the wind. There’s a scampering in my house that is not made by tiny warm blooded feet. There’s a gnawing in my house that has nothing to do with tiny black noses and scaly tails.
It has been very wet this summer and the cockroaches have invaded.
I have to admit I do not have a phobia, or at least if I do it’s a very mild condition that does not impact on living my life. I can leave a crumb on the floor and not worry about it all night before I get out the vaccum and clean the entire house. But, if I catch one of those crawling though my pans or heading towards my pantry that’s when the screaming starts.
Out come the choking chemicals. Out come the heavy boots and long handled brooms. The household scatters as I flail through the house fighting chosen weapon to scratching claw and wing cover. Silence only decends when the cockroach is so flatten that no leg is attached to control centre or it is so covered in spray that it glued to the floor.
In saying that, cockroaches are still here. We do all these things to them and yet we live our lives to encourage their existance. Let me explain.
Aliens looking down on us through their long range satelites would think that we must dislike whales (or at least the Japanese do) and we really hated the dodo. But cockroaches – by the numbers we allow to live around us, but our messy and unhygenic habit, by our disregard of other predator species – must be our favourite pets.