Once upon a very real time back in late January/early February, a glimpse of warmth appeared in our home. Outside winds blew, prolonging the brutal dip of our temps. But inside, a flurry of tiny little wings reminded us of warmth. It was sweet and endearing for about twenty seconds before thoughts of disintegrating clothes and blankets flashed through my mind.

A moth invasion! Kill it was my instinct. Before Hudi stopped me.

“Don’t kill Henry!”

Say what? The moth has a name? A pet? How can I kill it when my 15-year-old had already named it? And how much damage could a little moth do? My moth-murderous hands dropped.

Two weeks later I was re-evaluating the situation. Henry had a penchant for dive-bombing my face as I innocently walked through doorways and around corners. Henry also liked to share my evening drinks. Not cool.

After an incident where I narrowly avoided Henry’s rapid swoop toward my open mouth, I had enough. “Dude, I have to kill Henry.” I told my son.

He agreed.

Then another Henry appeared, and another. The Henry pictured here is, according to a very non-scientific guestimate, Henry the 128th. Where were they coming from?

Friends shared their own moth stories, and we learned that Henrys can originate from birdseed (nope), furniture
(great, we had gotten a new-to-us couch last summer), and clothing (nothing seemed eaten yet). Some friends had lots of Henrys flying around at once (the most we had at one time was two).

As it usually goes, one day when we weren’t even thinking about Henry, Chris discovered the moth origin. A bag of rice we had never opened.

Now it’s warmer, and we can offer the last few Henrys a catch-and-release option. It’s nice knowing that the dive-bombing days are nearly over. Part of me is going to miss Henry a bit, though. Henry provided an interesting twist to our long, drawn-out winter.