Every morning, when it lightens enough for me to see clearly, I’m up and hunting---a silent, sober, spirited killer who strategically tracks his prey. Some victims are pretty wily and swift, though, and can be worthy opponents. But they seldom escape my deadly assault. Most are savagely struck down in their tracks, never realizing their impending doom. Others are smarter, however; once they realize their peril they employ different survival techniques. Sometimes they freeze, thinking they can’t be seen in their stillness. Others rush about erratically hoping to cleverly throw me off. Occasionally they get lucky and escape, but that just makes me more careful the following hunt. Usually I bag at least four or five: almost always one large, one middling, and a few smaller ones. Nailed as many as seven or eight a few times. Even when I don’t spy one right away, if I stand there for a bit and focus my attention, I almost always catch some slight motion in the corner of my eye and then the game is on. I follow their frantic flight until I take them out. There is no reprieve. You’d think at some point they would realize the persistent danger and mounting losses, and simply stay off my property. So now, stirring from my sleep, I prepare for this morning's chase. I hate those damn roaches.