Once upon a time, many moons ago, we took up temporary residence in a quaint town in the heart of south Louisiana. During our sojourn there, I penned an assortment of essays recounting our escapades—a collection that never saw the light of day. As I embark on a digital spring-cleaning expedition, I’ve decided to share some of those tales, along with a few other yarns that have been stashed away, patiently awaiting their moment.
The car rolled into a short driveway, nestled snugly between the house’s imposing façade and the garage door, which seemed to have forsaken its duty of opening. Flanking the kitchen entrance stood a diminutive garden, home to a somewhat ramshackle porch swing, a plastic pond, and a steadfast concrete bench. I swiftly ushered the dogs out of the car and led them to this charming garden, while John embarked on a mission through the kitchen door, intent on locating Newt and persuading her into a bedroom.
The instant I set foot on the gravelly stone path, my gaze locked onto a feline presence. There he was, sprawled with regal nonchalance across the bench, his smoky gray coat peppered with dapples of light. His countenance exuded an air of regal indifference, accentuated by the luxuriant, fuzzy mane framing his luminous eyes. Following a cursory acknowledgment of our arrival, the feline sovereign returned to his slumber. My canine companions, in their eager anticipation of exploring this novel domain and their palpable relief at escaping the confines of the car, paid no heed to their regal observer.
John swung open the side door and delivered the news, “The power’s out.”
I watched as he activated the flashlight on his phone and guided me and the dogs into the master bedroom on the ground floor. My eyes struggled to acclimate to the enveloping darkness, while the dogs, brimming with restless excitement, pulled in three disparate directions. The bedroom door closed behind us. John gestured toward the bathroom door before departing on a quest to contact our landlord, restore the power, or engage in some manner of remedial action.
With my phone’s feeble light, I ventured into the bathroom, sweeping its feeble glow across the room to get my bearings. And there, lying motionless in the center of the floor, I encountered a creature—an entity of considerable proportions: the most colossal cockroach I had ever encountered in the flesh.
Back during our tenure in the nation’s capital, my roommate Erin and I had sporadic encounters with moderately sized cockroaches in our apartment. Our chosen method of dealing with these unwelcome guests was nothing if not typical for two young adults: we hurled our shoes in their general direction. Following that, I moved into a minuscule studio apartment where, on my inaugural night, diminutive cockroaches swarmed the bathroom sink. However, a meticulous cleaning swiftly quelled their invasion.
The cockroach now before me on the bathroom floor dwarfed any of its Washington, D.C. counterparts, yet it lay lifeless. Given that the house had been unoccupied for several days, save for Newt, I surmised that our feline resident was the heroic hunter responsible for dispatching this intruder. I thought that was the end of the matter—how naïve I was.
It marked the inception of an unsettling saga.
After an hour’s passage, power was restored. We arranged the dog beds in the bedroom and sought reprieve on the futon that John had transported from his previous abode. Our moving truck, carrying our possessions, wouldn’t grace us with its presence for another two days. As I tossed and turned amidst fitful slumber, my thoughts were preoccupied with the prospect of thoroughly cleaning the house—a task that now appeared imperative, should additional cockroaches lurk in its shadowy corners. Just in case.
The North American cockroach, also known as the waterbug or palmetto bug, flourishes in balmy, damp climates. Its diet encompasses virtually anything, rendering it adaptable to a multitude of environments. These resilient creatures, thriving even in a place like New York City, where they are confronted with copious pesticides, have begun to develop resistance to the most commonly used chemical agents. Thus, they survive the onslaught and, in a bizarre twist, pose a threat to the city’s feline population. Cats, akin to Newt, hunt these roaches, but ingest the pesticides intended to eradicate them, leading to unintended health complications.
In locales such as Louisiana, the sweltering heat compels cockroaches to seek shelter indoors. They interpret moisture on house walls as a potential water source and invite themselves in. Their presence, aside from its inherent creepiness, results in the deposit of droppings and dismembered body parts that may contaminate food. These insects also emit secretions from their bodies, akin to scent-marking, and regularly regurgitate fluids.
Although they possess the ability to fly, they prefer scuttling on their six legs. Thus, our inaugural day in our new abode ushered in the revelation that our dogs derived immense pleasure from pursuing these skittering intruders.
Prior encounters with insects had never inspired the boys to embark on chase missions. They would occasionally half-heartedly snap at a fly or curiously watch the antics of bugs that ventured into our condo. Emmett would even sit in silent contemplation of the occasional spider, while Cooper would indulge in playful batting. However, these cockroaches ignited a primal instinct within them.
On the morning following the delivery of our furniture, John departed for work under the cloak of predawn darkness. He attended to the dogs, ensured their sustenance, and left for his professional obligations. In his absence, the boys sought solace in my bed, and together we succumbed to the embrace of slumber.
Sometime later, a thunderous commotion roused me from sleep. The sound of the dresser being dragged across the wooden floor reverberated through the room. Emmett and Cooper, their heads concealed beneath the dresser, frantically clawed and scrabbled with frenetic determination. They appeared to be laboring tirelessly to unearth an enigmatic quarry. My heart raced, and ominous thoughts flooded my mind. My worst fear materialized: a rat.
I summoned the dogs to desist, relocated Lucas to the hallway—since a dogfight atop a rodent was an unwanted addition to our predicament—and armed myself with a flashlight. Leaning down, I activated the light and inadvertently set a colossal cockroach, dwarfing a field mouse in size, into panicked motion. It darted beneath a dog bed, and I emitted a startled yelp.
Emmett and Cooper lunged at the bed, their claws seeking access to the elusive roach. It was at that juncture that I comprehended that the boys’ pursuit was not engendered by the mere presence of a cockroach; it was the magnitude of the creature that held their rapt attention. In the roach, they perceived a minuscule quarry—a prey worthy of pursuit.
With haste, I appropriated John’s shoe from the closet. Lifting a corner of the bed, I scrutinized its subterranean recesses in search of the elusive insect. But it had vanished without leaving a trace. My second inspection of the area beneath the bed yielded nothing.
