To Kill a Cock-a-Roach

I slipped into a deep, blissful sleep last night, the kind that guarantees grandiose dreams of riding bareback on a polar bear through a chocolate forest—until somewhere around three in the morning I awoke to a Friday-the-13th mega-freak scream coming from the bathroom. While my always on-duty spouse investigated, a surge of intense perfume bombarded my bedroom, which at first made me question if I was actually awake.

Apparently my little guy Noah, while making a middle-of-the-night potty run, was attacked by a B-52, dive-bombing cock-a-roach (that’s how we say it here, cock-a-roach), and in his groggy state of bladder-relieving horror, he armed himself with my most revered bottle of perfume. He could have, should have, used the can of Scrubbing Bubbles and shot the six-legged terrorist with a blast of foaming fury, but no—he chose Burberry London, leaving not only the bathroom, but the entire house smelling of its aromatic aftermath.

Before being finished off by the size-12 rubbah slippah, the roach lay there dying on the bathroom floor, backstroking in a pool of Burberry.