I've always considered myself a peaceable woman, respectful of God's creatures. I don't smack flies with rolled-up newspapers or squash spiders with the heel of my shoe.
I refuse to kill cockroaches, preferring to hire a hit man - my husband - to deliver a quick and merciful death to those who darken our door.
When I noticed a single moth in my pantry, I thought, at first, that my little winged guest and I could coexist in a state of harmony. A moth, after all, is simply the plain-Jane cousin of the noble butterfly. How could I evict such an innocent insect?
I quickly discovered that if you give a moth an inch, it will take a mile.
My little moth invited a posse of its moth friends, and they started hanging in the corners, feasting on Bisquick and making a general nuisance of themselves. Every time I opened the pantry door, it was like being at a Mothapalooza.
My moth squatters continued to party hardy in the pantry without interference until I discovered they'd been using my cornmeal as their personal lover's lane.
It's one thing to have moths, but I had to draw the line at larvae.
"This is not the Discovery Channel," I announced to the moths. "Time to take your life cycle on the road."
Removing everything from my pantry, I peered into bags of foodstuff, searching for interlopers. After hours of scrubbing and rearranging, I was confident that the moths had finally left the building.
The next morning, I opened the pantry, expecting a moth version of a ghost town, but to my horror there were even more moths, hanging from the ceiling, buzzing a brand-new box of cornflakes, and basically making a mockery of me.
Suddenly, all my pacifism flew out the window. I didn't just want those moths gone; I wanted blood.
"Time for the spray," I said ominously. "And not just any pesticide. I'm talking crack and crevice. There'll be nowhere to hide."
It was a wee bit disturbing how much I enjoyed spewing poisonous gases in my pantry. What had once been a moth haven was now a closet of doom.
I waited a couple of days before I checked the pantry again, and during that time, I was revisited by guilty feelings. I'd murdered legions of innocent moths that were just trying to stake out a humble existence. Was it so terrible to find the occasional grub in my flour? Shouldn't I have tried something organic first, instead of total annihilation?
On the third day, I opened the pantry, and as expected, there was no sign of life.
Not only that, but my pantry smelled so toxic that I wondered whether I should ever put any food into it again. Had I done the right thing? Was I some kind of monster?
Yesterday, I opened my pantry and saw an ant.
"It's just one ant," I said to myself. "Maybe Mr. Ant and I can live side by side as brothers."
"Nope," I decided as I flattened it with my hand.
One ant is one too many.
AUGUSTA RESIDENT KARIN GILLESPIE IS THE AUTHOR OF BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR AND A DOLLAR SHORT (SIMON & SCHUSTER). SHE CAN BE REACHED AT WWW.KARINGILLESPIE.COM.
