Monday, July 09, 2007

Death of a Mud Dauber

The wasp had to go. His rap sheet had multiple counts of sneaking in to my parent's house and constructing mud nests by the front door. I was visiting that weekend. My assignment: Execute it. I pleaded for leniency, but my folks said no. They didn't want to confront him and his potential offspring each time they stepped outside. I was to find him. And kill him.
This proved difficult. I swear he* knew what a can of Raid looked like. He flew off whenever it was handy. Each time I put the can away her returned, bumping into the glass door as if to taunt me.
Time to get tough. I found a fly swatter and stormed outside. He was going down. We played chicken for a minute. I caught him on a flat surface and SMACK!
I peered at his battered body, crumpled except for a stinger that whirled like a chameleon eye, desperate inflict revenge. I felt sorry for the little guy. He couldn't help being a wasp. I admired his form. Delicate, streamline, sporty. Art Nouveau with a stinger. One less thing of beauty in the world thanks to me.
Then I remembered that if I were his size, he'd have paralyzed me with his venom and let his kids eat me alive.
I left his body the ants and went inside.

*more likely, a she since it was building a nest

1 comment:

GhostBuild said...

Yeah, hating the wasp. Me. Hating. The waspseses. Hating. As in not liking. The wasps.