A large enough bug can halt productivity in almost any situation. The appearance of a centipede? That’s enough to call it a day.

^{Photo/WikiMedia Commons}

These 100 leg creatures are ugly enough to star in a horror film, speedy enough to make the Olympics. They sprint by so fast, you can almost convince yourself you didn’t see a small snake with legs go by. Almost.

While I was sitting on my bed unpacking, a centipede the size of my hand came darting out from under a box. It climbed the side, paused, and we eyeballed each other. I casually picked up the tissue beside me and planned a swoosh and flush maneuver.  He was too quick for me.

He sprinted, I screamed. Images of him under my covers kept popping into my head. I stripped the bed, shook everything out; no centipede. Eagle-eyed, I tiptoed around my room, the tissue behind my back. I searched high, low, under and around; no centipede.

Then I took to Google; surely it would know what to do. Piecing together information from various sources, the situation appeared harmless (they’re not bloodsuckers) but hopeless (they’re often too fast to catch).

Centipedes, generally nocturnal, are attracted to warm, moist environments. They prey on roaches, bed bugs, termites and silverfish. Luring it out using its favorite food wasn’t an option (though it did cross my mind to find a roach and put it on fly paper. I had visions of the centipede dashing to the meal, only to get trapped and stuck. But the thought of a roach? Shudder).

My next thought was introducing a predator. But I didn’t want a mouse, salamander or mongoose running through my bedroom either. My next thought: I’ll have to move.

Then I had a eureka moment: the deep freeze. The box came from the laundry room — a warm, moist environment, hence the piggyback ride to my room. It was daytime; the centipede was probably sleeping until the cold air jolted it awake. My room could potentially be an icebox, which Google told centipedes hate. I cranked the air conditioner to high, closed the door (there’s a gap between the door and floor) and waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually I got bored and turned back to my laptop. Eventually I got cold and put on a sweatshirt. Eventually I had to use the bathroom and knew I would have to leave my post. The centipede won.

I convinced myself he bolted to find warmth, left while I wasn’t looking. So I cut a deal with him. Listen up: I won’t call an exterminator if you don’t sprint around my bedroom. Stay in the laundry room and we’ll call a truce.

It’s been a few days and I haven’t seen him. Every box is unpacked and discarded, all items put away. If he’s here, he’s staying out of sight. I’ve even done laundry; no centipede.

Since there’s really no way to keep centipedes out of your home (short of running the AC 24/7, sealing every hole, crack and crevice and adopting a mongoose), the only thing to do is make peace. At the end of the day, I decided if I had to live with a bug, a centipede was among the better choices.