I’m sitting at the sink, sharpening my father’s old knives and all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of those little bastards scurry across the floor and dive under the dishwasher. I haven’t seen any of them inside the house since I started using traps. I’ve not used those in several years, and these guys have never come back. Until now.
I stand up, take off my slipper, run over, and roll the dishwasher out. He’s frozen by the sudden light.
I remember when I was young, I would be falling asleep at night, and I could hear my father in the kitchen killing them by the dozens. The sound of that slap, slap, slap. Like a machine gun.
For the most part, I’m kind to all living things, believe that all life is sacred, but these little guys don’t make the list.
I raise my arm way up, then come down with a force that sends little bits of guts squishing out from the sides of my slipper.
My conscience tugs at me for a moment. I hate it when they fall to their knees and beg for mercy just before you kill them.