This story was originally published on June 7, 2020.
They come at night, as invaders do. Flying in a very ungraceful way, a menacing way, like miniature kamikazes. Their bodies are like furry bullets, their gray and vomit- green wings like something from hell.
My hunt begins.
Every night has been like this, ever since Colorado State University scientists at the end of May sounded the alarm: The miller moths were coming in “abundance.”
The miller moths have natural enemies. Bats, birds, beetles. And now they have me.
I have killed by backhand. I have killed by shoe. By unimportant mail. Many magazines have been sacrificed.
Once I spotted a miller moth assuming position in my shower. I killed then by water. Another time I heard one bouncing about the curtains. I wielded a paper towel, and when I sent that one crashing to the floor, another miller moth appeared at its side, as if to lend aid — a fatal decision on his part.
I have smeared their dusty remains upon my fridge, my countertops, my book shelf, my lamps, where they primarily mobilize.
My wife, Meredith, hates this. Experts suggest a trap: a bucket of soapy water near the light. No, Meredith said the other day.
“We’re not doing it. We’re not doing it! I don’t like killing stuff.”
She prefers to capture them in cups, releasing them back outside, often ushering in two or three more for me to face.
The cat has become my only comrade. Her swipes are mostly futile. Still I trust her to be on watch after I go to bed; I make one final patrol, hopefully ensuring the miller moths don’t exact revenge while I slumber.
What pests! I think. How dare they come now, yet more agents of our disaster period. Our time of woe. Our time of anger.
We can take solace in this miller moth invasion likely being brief. While there have been years where the chaos continues through June, these outbreaks typically end in the early part of the month, Colorado State University scientists say, as the moths continue their migration from the plains to the mountains. In the high elevations, they are bound for a buffet of flowers and nectar.
They go by a more dreadful name in their birth fields: army cutworms. They might wreak havoc on crops while becoming these creatures with messy wings that have made us recall residue of grain millers.
We have presently found ourselves at war with the miller moths because of certain conditions. Generally drier than last year, delaying vegetation, and entomologists have also pointed to an April freeze that further stalled blooms.
So instead, the miller moths have come for our landscapes and gardens. And they have met our fury.
But as it turns out, they mean us no harm.
They are indeed “a considerable nuisance,” reads a CSU paper, which suggests combat by swatting, vacuuming and that soapy water trap. Mass casualties in the house might create “a small odor problem,” it reads, due to deteriorating fat (known to be a treat for grizzlies in Yellowstone, by the way).
“Probably the greatest damage created by millers is the lost sleep resulting from their flying about,” the paper reads, “and the needless worry that they may reproduce in the home and cause harm to household furnishings.”
No, the moths won’t lay eggs inside. They won’t feast on our furniture. They like our greenery, yes, but not our homes.
Their erratic flying? A sign of irritation; they are hyper sensitive to our clamor. Their hovering around lightbulbs? A sign of confusion and desperation; they seek the moon and the stars, their migratory guides.
In the quiet, nutritious woods and meadows of the mountains, many will lay themselves to rest, explaining why fewer are noticed returning to the plains come fall.
The past few weeks, if it’s been up to my wife, the millers have been allowed to continue their journey. One recent night, I was preoccupied on my phone. I was scrolling through the latest on the plague, the latest protest and city on fire. I was feeling angry and sad. Meredith took the moment to tend to a moth before I detected it.
She was almost successful.
I rose, rolled-up magazine in hand, and she frowned. “I was so close to saving that one. ...”
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This article was originally published on June 7, 2020.
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