Bugs and I usually get along fairly well. We have an understanding: if I find them in my house, I calmly help them find their way out. If they find me in their house, they help me find my way out. As far as I can tell, it works.
I let the dog out this evening and was mildly perturbed when she proceeded to run around the yard happy as a clam and completely ignoring my rather reasonable requests for her to come inside. As I approached a bush she appeared utterly fascinated with, I noticed that the bush was rustling. Our bushes are usually pretty good about not rustling (they get a bit disorderly in the wind, but that's a separate matter). Thus, I instinctively knew something was amiss.
Alas, it's the height of the Brood X periodical cicada mania. The bushes, trees, and ground were teeming with 'em! My normal peaceful relations with insects was on the verge of collapse, so I retreated inside for a healthy dose of the heebie-jeebies. I'm sure those I tortured seventeen years ago with cicada husks (namely, my sister) feel I'm getting what was coming to me. For hours, I felt like they were crawling all over me. And I just know I'm going to hear that rustling as I try to go to sleep tonight.
Hopefully we'll be able to come to an understanding before they come again in another seventeen years.
