Cockroaches are seasonal animals. I didn’t know that. Living in a building where they come and go, finding my kitchen every other night, I never paid attention to their long cycle of life. Four or five different kinds of these buggers have paid a visit over the last decade. They’re common, curious and always hungry, pretty much like me ... smarter than me and of course stronger than I will ever be.
But they tend to hibernate, apparently. So for the first two cold months of the Winter season, I didn’t really see them: except once in my bathroom. One of these lightening speed bugs, white round body, little brown head. Running like, er, a cockroach. I could barely hear its “Ohlordwhatamistake” mustered like 15 times before it made a run for the drain ... caught it before…
Then there were two babies. Tiny girls of the same family. They were not used to humans, clearly, especially the one that came just after lunch asking for food. She was not afraid and still sleepy (night creatures like me too.)
No longer the skinny bright ones that run and fly in spirals, their wings showing a rainbow for an instant. And none of the biggies: dark confident guys with low tone voices. In Summer, these expert karate bugs brave the ceiling fans to go from the balcony to the dustbin on the kitchen floor. They’re not really smart and try flying above me and ... well ... they hit the fan. And then they land on my desk, dizzy, combing their antennas with their front legs. That’s when I hit them with a book or a piece of cloth.
Anyway, I realized a few days ago that cockroaches are not coming because it’s cold. Not because I’ve been treating them with insecticide for almost two years (I know, environment.) I’ve used two brands: an Indian super powerful compound (they literally drop dead in seven seconds) and an international brand, famous everywhere ... the shiny roaches react angrily to it, flying towards my face when I spray them, then they die.
It’s the Winter days, cold and dry, I’m telling you. I mean, I hope, because I’ve been cooking a lot these months. Oily, smelly meals in the Indian way, or in the Mexican one. They didn’t show up to enquire about the menu or recite a poem or perform an acrobatic trick in exchange for a drop of soup or a small piece of something tasty and good. And of that, I might take offence...