Healthcare for REAL Minority Pets

Gates by David Bonomo: Southern Florida
*
It is nighttime. Woody has been sleeping in the living room lately on an ultra soft green blanket that looks like baby fine grass and not with me. His arthritis has gotten much worse and he walks with a slight shimmy and has a hunch in his back.
SO I was delighted when I heard a “tap-tap-tap” next to my pillow that night. “Oh, goody! You’ve come to bed.” I whispered and flicked on the light.
Hm. No Woody. I could see him, sound asleep in the next room.
I turn to punch my pillow and splayed out in the center of it – where my head just was – is a prehistoric beetle the size of a small bird.
“Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghghghaghghghghghghghaaaahghghghg!!!”
I am already out of bed in the split second it takes David to wake up.
“What the -?”
I am already pointing and doing a jig with my Scream face on but all that is coming out is some otherworldly screech.
“Jesus!” David yells, and lunges out of bed.
The jarring motion has awakened the Sleeping Giant and it scurries – toe tapping loud, this thing was so big!!! – off the bed and into the closet.
“Naaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsasysyaghgajh!”
In a heartbeat – mine had just resumed – David dove into the closet and shoes started flying and the laundry hamper and belts and –
“I need a paper- I need a shoe- I need a shovel! Get me a shovel!’
Yeah, right. Like I’m running into the garage in bare feet now.
I run into the kitchen – Woody gives me a shocked look as I dash past him – and grab a – ladle? – and come rushing back into the bedroom, only to hear David growling, “Die! Die! Die, you fucker!” and the slamming of a shoe – my Nikes! Oh, to hell with it, the arches suck anyway…. And then, then… it was all over.
“I need some paper towels in here!” David says as emerges from the closet, holding the sporty murder weapon, wiping sweat from his brow. “I don’t think you’ll want to wear these shoes anymore.”
“Fifteen years together and finally we can agree on something,” I say, winded, handing him an entire roll of paper towels.
“You got any rug cleaner? It’s a mess in here.”
Ew.
I peak into the murder scene, and Coroner Dave yells, “Don’t look!”
So I don’t.
*
It took me a full week to get a full night’s sleep again. Just long enough for the Palmetto Bugs on Steroids to let me get comfortable. And then, the morning came when I woke up to a sunny room shaded only by the…
…PALMETTO BUG SCURRYING ACROSS MY FACE!
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUIUIUFHGHJFGHUHNNJGHUNMNVJHUHMNNFJURINKDMFKLKAHHH!”
David comes running, pants at his knees, holding the newspaper he reads every morning on the crapper. “What?”
I am jigging again, shrieking in tongues. “Blahjhdjhdjfkjfkjjdkjkdjgkkkahhhhhhhhhghghghghghhhh!” I run my hands around my face. “---akjdkjdkjk ACROSS MY FACE AND AKDLSJFKHGJHGJHH ON MY PILLOW AGAIN AND MY FACEMY FACE!!!!“
“Shit.” He pulls up his pants and goes into the bedroom, traps the lobster in the shower drain and then you know what he said?
“Guess I should start shutting the bedroom window at night.”
“What.” My first English word of the day.
“The window. The screen is a little ripped and I guess the palmetto bugs are getting in that way.”

WOMAN KILLS HUSBAND OVER BUG DISPUTE
“He Tortured Me With Palmetto Bugs,” She Claims

(Couldn’t you picture it, though?)