Elvis and I moved to New York almost exactly one year ago; two brassy and sarcastic Boston females that were ready to take on everything this city would throw at us. Hers would be more of an inside task, manning the apartment and making sure no unwelcome visitors would dare to enter. Mine was more of the Go Out And Conquer The Universe version of the plan.
Fast forward to this past April. Elvis was becoming increasingly more interested with staring at one particular part of the wall in the apartment--so much so that I mustered up the courage to get down on the floor and see if there were any cracks/holes in the wall in which (gulp) cockroaches could enter. Yup. There was a rather large opening between the baseboard and floor. Not being able to relax knowing there was an entrance for enemies to enter my fortress, I took a proactive move and decided to Raid the shit out of that little hole.
Elvis knows when shit's dangerous/toxic, and she refused to go near that spot afterwards. Still a little bit panic-y, I worked myself into a later about the potential possibility that I poisoned my cat with roach killer. Was she acting more lethargic than normal? Did I just see her try to puke? Sleep took over, and I forgot about it until the next morning, when she wasn't lacing in and out of my feet in the bathroom as I was brushing my teeth. Oh my god, I fucking killed my cat. I left the bathroom to go find her, and there she was, just sitting in the front hallway, in the dark, staring down. That's it, she's about to die. I walked over to her, said: Ellie, what's up? Why are you acting all weird and depressed? She looked up at me briefly then once again, resumed her Sylvia Plath-esqe attention to the ground. Fine, be that way--I have to get ready for work.
The last thing I do when I leave is put food in the bowl for Elvis in my kitchen. This dreaded morning was no different. As I was about to exit the kitchen, I was switching the light off, which is directly outside of it, in the hall. I was looking down, about to take a right in to my hall to get my coat and leave--and there it was.
I slowly backed up into the kitchen, reached behind me on the counter where I had not yet put away the Raid from the night before, and slowly walked over to it and sprayed the ever loving piss from the can on to this fucking beast. It began squirming and shriveling, all the while I began shaking, tears welling in my eyes and becoming short of breath. I ran into my kitchen, wrapped my hands in more paper towels than I care to admit, THEN stuck said hand into 4 plastic bags I had saved from the grocery store. I bent down, full on crying now, picked up this dumb fucking line backer of a roach and threw it away. As soon as it was disposed of, I walked out of my kitchen, turned my head and projectile vomited down the hall.
That night after work, (after I puked in the morning, I changed, cleaned the horror that had just spewed out of me and got the fuck outta dodge as soon as I could) I went to the KMart a block from the office. I bought every sort of disinfectant, insect killer and cleaning supply imaginable. And a can of Spaghetti-O's. I cleaned the entirety of my apartment, top to bottom, blocking any form of hole, even if seemed smaller that a pinhole I could find. No fucking roach was gonna attempt to step their creepy little disgusting arthropod self into my apartment ever again. I was even regretting the fact I disposed of the roach from the morning, 'cause I wanted to hang his dead, poisoned carcass somewhere his buddies could see: Mexican drug cartel style.
So yeah. I don't do nature. Not even a little. And Elvis sucks as a guard cat.