Each year, around this time, you get stories of the miller moths that migrate through Wyoming. People hate them. The cats love them.
Right now, Obi is laying under the coffee table. The Boy is giving him advice on how to catch the miller walking around on the floor. Obi has obviously knocked the dust off the bug because he’s not flying.
“He’s getting away, Obi,” says The Boy.
Obi blinks up at The Boy. What do humans know about catching millers? Nothing.
In the upstairs bathroom, we have one of those big mirrors with the medicine cabinet behind it. Last night I had the side door cracked while I brushed my teeth. Obi was chasing a miller.
It landed on the top trim of the mirror. It disappeared over the top and Obi stood up on his tippy toes to see. As the door to the cabinet slammed shut, I knew just what had happened.
I opened the door.
A miller fell to the counter.
He wasn’t dead, but he was in his final moments. I did the standard 30 seconds of trying to point to the miller to show Obi. We all know how pointless pointing is with a cat. So I grabbed his head and directed it toward the floundering bug. And waited for his eyes to focus.
At last, the brown kitten saw. He ran back to sniff the bug.
He walked away.
That miller was broken.
Happy Independence Day!
Poor kitty. No one should have to put up with defective bugs.