I first noticed it on Wednesday. A moth had invaded our master bathroom and decided the curtain was a really good place to just hang out. I stared at it for a few moments, wondering how it had gotten in, and then wondering if it was even alive. It sat, completely unmoving, for what had to be five minutes. It didn't flinch as I blow-dried my hair, didn't budge as I slammed a drawer shut, and sat frozen in place as I walked past several times.

I probably should have tried to get rid of it right then and there, but instead I decided to see if it would just vanish on its own. It's a big house, after all, and there are four whole rooms that I basically never enter. The moth was welcome to find its way to any of those rooms. Or a certain male-type figure was welcome to notice the quarter-sized black moth on the stark white curtain and take care of it for me. Whichever.

Of course, the moth was still there later that evening. It seemed like it might be alive, but it still hadn't moved so much as a millimeter. In a rare show of mercy for a bug that had entered my No Bug Zone in the house, I just left it there. Surely it would be gone in the morning.

It wasn't.

Nor was it gone later that night or the next day.

Four days after I first spotted it, I walked into the bathroom and saw that my friendly neighborhood peeping Tom was on the floor. I wasn't sure if it had fallen off the curtain or flown down there, so I walked a wide circle around it. It didn't budge. Twenty minutes later, I picked up the hair dryer and glanced down at the moth. It didn't flinch. I went about my business, the moth about five feet away. Every once in a while I would glance down to make sure I wasn't about to be murdered by a moth-shaped nuclear weapon, but it continued to stay in its exact spot.

Until it didn't.

I didn't see it move, but I glanced down and found that the moth had turned about 45 degrees. It was no longer facing the window and was instead facing directly at me. "Guess it's not dead," I thought.

I walked past it to grab something from the closet and turned around to find that it had spun. It was facing me. Again.

I shot it a suspicious look as I walked past, returning to the bathroom counter. I wiped up a blob of toothpaste surely left by a certain 3-year old then glanced down to see that the moth had turned to face me. Again.

GAME ON.

I decided it was time for Mr. Moth to meet Mr. Dyson. I stomped out to the hall closet and returned to find that Mr. Moth was AGAIN staring straight at me. I plugged in the vacuum (most of our bathroom has carpet--I know, WTF, right?) and prepared for a Mr. Moth vs. Mr. Dyson showdown.

As the vacuumed neared the moth, I suddenly hesitated then swerved just left of the moth. I stood cussing silently in my head at the major wimpery that had just happened. I then pulled the vacuum back to take another swipe. The moth sat completely unmoving as I shoved a death chamber directly at it. Probably because it was a mind-reading nuclear weapon and knew I would wimp out again.

I KNOW.

What. the. heckery. feckery?

I am not a wuss when it comes to bugs. I swear. I usually show exactly NO mercy. Somehow, though, I had come to pity that stupid kamikaze moth. TOTALLY RIDICULOUS.

After I had vacuumed every square inch of carpet except the one square inch the moth was occupying, I slammed the power button off, called myself a few choice names, and went back to cleaning up the bathroom counter.

The moth just sat there staring at me, probably laughing hysterically that I had shown it mercy just as it was about to blow my head off. As I finished scrubbing the mirror, I decided that the moth had to be very near death and that I would get rid of its carcass that evening. Surely it would be dead of natural causes at that point so I wouldn't have to have the death of a moth on my conscious.

Shut up. I KNOW.

As I tossed the paper towels into the cabinet, Cody (our Havanese) came galloping into the room, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth and his eyes lit with mischief. He galloped over to me, gave me a love rub, and then turned to leave.

The next few moments were a blur as the moth turned to make sure it could keep its beady little eyes on me and as Cody set his beady little eyes on the moth. Before I could string together the syllables "Co-deee-nooooo," Cody had stuck a paw on top of the moth, batting at it like a miniature baseball. The dog scooped his paw downward then drug the moth across the carpet. It fluttered backwards, free of its captor. The moth tried to regain its composure and righted itself just as Cody's paw found its way back to the moth. Again the excited pup mopped the floor with the moth. And again. And again.

The moth that had sat unmoving for days in the bathroom was suddenly full of fight, its wings flapping and its legs flaying. It's eyes were probably darting to and fro (I don't know because there was NO WAY I was going to get close enough to find out for sure) as the dog tossed it all over the room.

And then as quick as it began, it was over. The moth sat unmoving and clearly dead and the dog galloped off, probably in search of a new victim to torture.

I grabbed Mr. Dyson and put the period on the end of Mr. Moth's four-day adventure story, but not before chewing myself out for having let a furball do my dirty work for me.