A Heroic Day

As I lay abed, happily ensconced with my book, I sensed a horrible fluttering right by my ear.  Ugh! Out of my peripheral vision, I vaguely saw something dark brown and ugly.  And BIG.  And flapping! Double Ugh!  Then, a grey streak flew across me, and everything on my bedside table went clattering to the floor. (Except, fortunately, the lamp.) The battle was on! The moth was gigantic, but valiant Tobias was up to it.  Leaping over me several times,  scrabbling up my headboard, and down again amongst my pillows, he finally emerged with a victorious smirk, his mouth dripping moth dust.  Blech!  He left a little moth dust in my bed, but that was better than a whole moth. My noble kitty!

The next day, I found another similar object of disgust in my kitchen.  I got Tobias up from his nap and pointed the brute out.  Tobias was once again up to the task. He stared at it menacingly for a moment or two, and then  pounced.  He proudly strode about the room with a moth moustache, but after a few turns, he dropped the still living creature to the floor and toyed with it – letting it move about and then pouncing again.  Finally, I was moved to pity for the repulsive thing, picked it up and sent it to a watery grave down the toilet.  Why should I feel guilty putting a moth down the toilet, and not guilty setting Tobias on it – a much more lengthy and unpleasant death?  The human mind is a mystery. 

When the moth suddenly disappeared, Tobias was naturally surprised and upset!  He went about the kitchen, chirping in that way that cats on the prowl do, desperately looking for his prey.  To console him, I got out his spider – his favorite toy – and he played with it happily for two minutes until he lost it. I had to crawl about and retrieve it from under the stove, and this time he was more careful and managed to keep it until he finally got bored. 

It's tiring being heroic.

 New word:  Mottephobia.  You can guess what that means.  

Moth pornography.