A zillipede (not a centipede or millipede, but a similar
creature, fuzzier and faster, with perhaps a zillion legs) ran in my back door yesterday afternoon,
racing along the baseboard in the kitchen to escape eradication. By the time I located a weapon, he had
vanished. I opened the cabinet under the
sink, but I was too terrified to pull anything out in case he ran up my arm, straight for my jugular vein, and fastened his zillion legs into by neck. I am
totally freaked out, knowing he is lurking, lying in wait to dispense death in
some darkened spot where my bare toes may go (like under the counter while I
reach into the cupboard for the peanut butter jar).
If I feel him tickling my foot and then chomping my tender
skin as he runs up my leg, injecting zillipede venom into my blood, I will
probably go berserk, either collapsing immediately at the scene of the attack
in the kitchen, or running outside onto the deck in a desperate plea for help
from anyone in the vicinity. Perhaps a
passerby will notice my stiffened body in a face plant amongst the petunias, and call for help.
I’ve given the
Princess Cat strict orders to be on the alert for the terrorist, and to annihilate the zillipede immediately
if he as much as sticks a leg out. (Being a Princess, however, she may think a
servant should do the job instead.) Therefore, if no one hears from me for several
days, please come out to check for my poisoned, decomposing remains, as well as notify my
family of the zillipede tragedy and my demise. In the meantime, whisper an Irish Blessing on my behalf.
