Millers, the term we use for all kinds of small moths, have been serious pests this summer in my neck of the woods. They've been breeding like rabbits in our minivan. Of course, the minivan is filled with a cornucopia of Miller staples. On the floors and in the cup holders are old sweets, baked goods, cheeseburgers, spilled juices and milks - just about anything you can feed children (or Millers) in a vehicle, if you are apt to do so. And we are.
One thing that amazes me about the Millers is their tolerance of heat. You'd think they'd die in the sheer intensity of the midday sun, but they scoff at it. They dance along the roof of the van and wait it out, breed it out at Club Minivan. I don't even keep the windows down for them - I deliberately neglect them, but they don't die.
Also, I've eaten three Millers this summer, to date. I just breathed in and choked on their immovable, furry dryness. One morning on the way to church I inhaled one and nearly started a barf-a-rama with the fam-in-the-van. I couldn't get the feel of the freaking thing out of my throat.
There is one bothering me even now, drawn to the grace and genius of my writing. I can hardly pick it off my display because it's so small and I have no fingernails worth mentioning - not that I want fingernails worth mentioning, because I don't. I'm just saying. When I do get it off, it flies right back on to this mysterious, monolithic Miller-beacon. (I hear the Space-Odyssean drums and I wait for it to take up a small Miller exoskeleton and begin to bludgeon another, dumber Miller - but it doesn't happen. It may be it just needs more time.) Perhaps it just wants me to kill it. Perhaps it's pleading with me in its vigorous little Miller language-dance: Squash me! Eat me! Kill me! I feel obliged, but I just don't like killing things - not even Millers.