Well, he's at it again.
Ivan is stalking a moth.
This may not sound newsworthy, but there is something you do not know.
The moth is dead. Not just dead, really really really dead.
How do I know this?
Simple. This is the same moth that Ivan has stalked and killed every night for the last nine days.
It is actually kind of sad.
Every night after the two leggers go to bed, Ivan and I go on our nightly patrol. Every night as we approach the sliding door thingy, Ivan spots the little winged corpse lying in the track of the sliding door thingy. Not recognizing his previous nights' victim, he suddenly crouches, his gelatinous hindquarters begin to quiver, his sad excuse for a tail begins to twitch and he feels the compunction to chitter.
In a low voice he says: "Ummm.....I'm gonna get you, you hairy little, flying, not quite a butterfly thingy."
Now, either the moth is paralyzed with fear, or possibly, and I know this is a stretch, it could be, I don't know............ DEAD?
I attempt to inform Ivan that the moth is deceased, but he does not believe it. He believes that it is simply "playing possum". He doesn't know what a "possum" is, but is convinced that if he knew what a possum looked like, it would look just like a dead moth. He informs me that the moths' identical twin attempted the same ruse last night.
I ask him about the previous eight nights. He uses this as an example of just how dedicated they are to "playing possum".
After thoroughly re-slaying the moth, Ivan gives me a smug look and walks away in total contentment.
Tomorrow, I think I'll get him a fresh moth.