All Creatures Great and... What was that!?

Oh yeah, I'm ba

     Evening descends, and I am peacefully washing dishes with the newly installed hot water faucet when suddenly a large object buzzes my head, and ricochets off my back.  This flying battle-wagon emits a grinding, screeching war cry- Szxickzksksksksksss!  Wasting no time, my highly developed Ninja reflexes take over.  But the flying menace evades my whirling limbs.

     Massive air turbulents disrupt his flight and Gargantua crashes into the wall.  The collision rocks the kitchen. It tumbles to the ground, spinning in circles, and then stops.   

    Our cat Lucu comes to the rescue! She swipes at the Thing with a tentative paw, and then keeps her distance.  She looks at the Thing, then up at me.  She has more sense than I thought. Coward.

    Szxickzksksksksksss! Another screech and this time we engage in a round of ground fighting.  We break off and size each other up.  Weapons, I need weapons.  I reach for the dish towel to inflict a good throttling only to succeed in pushing Gargantua around the kitchen.

     Pause… Breathe… So far Gargantua’s only offences are trespassing and disturbing the peace. Is this grounds for war?  Perhaps not. I offer a truce, and using the largest piece of Tupperware I can find, carry my adversary to the edge of the patio. We bow and salute each other. I launch him into the Bird of Paradise plants. No casualties.

Epilogue

    The morning comes, and I rise to make coffee.  Gargantua has returned. But he is mortally wounded, and lay on his back on the window ledge. Perhaps he flew toward the light to resume battle and crashed into the window. 

    A brief Google search identified my flying foe as a cicada, commonly 1-2 inches, with some Malaysian varieties growing to 4-5 inches. Basically harmless, the cicada drinks sap from trees and flowers.  They are also known for “singing”.  Excuse me, Singing?

    Now things become clear. This was certainly a case of cicad-icide. After hearing a sample of his singing abilities, I can imagine the ridicule, the teasing he faced. You chirped to a different drummer my friend, was that it?  No seat on the choir. Did they mock you?  

    And when you could take it no longer, you chose death by ex-pat. ‘Twas a foolish thing you did. No more sap, or moonlit skies for you.  Can't we all just get along?  
All I can say to other cicadas is to stay in school, get support, and keep practicing. And if singing isn’t your thing, there's always the bass.