Having spent three days solid on her carpetry, Mrs Allnixguts had enough. For three days she had shaken, fumigated, hoovered, vinegar watered, and brushed, the carpets that lay on her floors, the saddlebags that covered her chairs cushions, and the kelims that curtained her four poster bed.
She was battling against the moth menace again, and loosing every fight. No matter how hard she cleaned, no matter how many strips of moth killer she slipped under her carpets, no matter how many pheromone traps she distributed around the house, the moths were still winning.
She was no longer prepared to tolerate it.
"Helga," she shouted at the top of her voice, "Helga, something has to be done!"
Her daughter lifted her head from a book, and smiled. "Mother dear," she intoned in her honeyed voice, which she always employed when trying to get out of helping with the housework, "have you tried Transcendental Meditation?" "You are taking these things entirely too seriously."
"Harrumpph," or something like that, said Mrs Allnixguts.
Then she telephoned the university.
"Put me through to the Biology Department," she demanded. The telephonist recognised her voice from previous calls, and tried to stall. But Mrs Allnixguts was adamant. "The Biology Department!" she demanded in that stentorian voice that put the fear of God into anyone it was directed at.
Sighing, the telephonist put her through to the Biology Department. It took some time before she could transfer the call, since most biologists knew Mrs Allnixguts of old and preferred not to take her calls.
Everyone, that is, except the janitor, who was a secret experimenter and illegally used the laboratory to test his harebrained inventions after opening hours.
He took her call, nodded sagely, occasionally asked a clarifying question, and eventually admitted that he had no idea of how to help her.
"If all else fails go to the Philosophy Department," thought Mrs Allnixguts.
The Philosophy Department consisted of five Professors who liked to use their brains.
"Militant moths," mused Byron. "Let's analyse the possibilities," opined Dan. "Above all, we must do no harm," interjected Irving. "This is definitely multi-departmental," concluded Don.
Mrs Allnixguts was informed that the Philosophers would accept the challenge, and told to return in a week's time.
With her out of the way, the Philosophers brain-stormed the situation.
(1) Do moths have a language? Ask the biologists and the chemists.
(2) If they do, how can we magnify it so it becomes discernible to humans? Explore this with the engineers.
(3) What sort of language do they speak? Explore with the classicists and modern language teachers.
(4) Do moths do deals? Enlist the help of economists.
(5) What sort of deal can we offer them? Discuss with Mrs Allnixguts.
The biologists and chemists confirmed that moths did have a language.
The engineers built an electronic magnifier that made it audible.
However, the language experts turned out to be completely useless, and failed to decipher the language of the moths. That stalled progress for a few days, until Irving went back to first principles, and managed to decode the most frequently used sound bites he heard, with the help of a visiting economist, Isabella Kaputnik, who had a vast experience of moths.
She also helped with the deal-making aspect of the matter. According to her, the Common Clothes Moth, Tineola bisselliella, had few wants and was easily satisfied, provided it was treated with respect. "They are just as happy eating unwanted left overs as expensive cashmere sweaters," she said. "Provided you supply them with some sort of food, address them correctly, and don't swat or poison them, they will be quite amicable."
Mrs Allnixguts was confronted with these findings, and asked what sort of deal she would accept.
"Do they eat fluff-bunnies?" By which she meant, did moths eat the balls of fluff found behind the doors and in the corners of houses owned by persons who don't like dusting - popularly referred to as sluts-wool.
"It is definitely worth asking," said Isabella. "But you should also offer them other things." "Old sweaters and wool blankets that I no longer need," said Mrs Allnixguts. "Cut-offs and left-over crafting supplies," she added.
They set up a meeting with the moths. The moths were happy with all the offered food, but asked for the contents of the hoover bag to be thrown in as well. This was conceded by Mrs Allnixguts.
Next they discussed the location of the food, and thus the moths. The moths demanded a warm and dark place. No garden shed, no outhouse, and no cellar. Mrs Allnixguts suggested the attic. "I hardly ever go there, and there is lots of old furniture and such like, where you can build a nest, if you like." The moths agreed to this location, with the provision that they would be allowed into the house if the attic got too hot or too cold. This Mrs Allnixguts agreed to, with the proviso that the moths would abstain from eating anything except the dust that collected on her furniture. The moths were happy with this.
That gave Don an idea. "If the moths like house-dust, which is mainly fluff, why don't they come down once a week and eat all the dust? They have an outing, and you don't have to do the dusting!" This idea was taken up with alacrity by both moths and Mrs Allnixguts. So they agreed that the moths would be summoned every Saturday morning to come into the house and 'do the dusting'.
There remained one sticking point, however. Mrs Allnixguts was unhappy about the moths' demand to be addressed in what they considered a respectful manner, and balked at addressing them as 'Their Imperial Mothnesses'. It seemed excessive to her. Yet worse, the moths insisted that every Saturday morning, when they entered her parlour, they would be announced and introduced to whoever happened to be present at the time, in the following way: "Hail and Praise Their Imperial Mothnesses, Rulers of Carpets, Queens of the Fluffballs, Majesties of the Wool-closet!" They also insisted to be told the name, rank, and relationship to the household, of everyone present.
Mrs Allnixguts resisted. "Everyone will think me mad," she complained.
"No one would dare," said Irving, who knew her well.
Since Mrs Allnixguts could not ague with that without losing face, she agreed to address the moths in the way they desired.
Thus began a life of bliss and happiness for Mrs Allnixguts, who no longer had to dust and worry about her carpets and woolens, and the moths, who finally received the respect and acceptance from human beings that they had always craved and longed for.
In time Mrs Allnixguts' visitors got used to the moths, and several of them, upon hearing of the Deal, enlisted the Philosophers to arrange something similar for their own home.
And they all lived happily ever after, or until they died.
I can dream, can't I?
