If you’re a regular reader of this column, then you know my stance on bugs: try the “catch and release” option whenever possible.
There are, though, exceptions to my rule.
If it can sting me, it’s toast. I’ve been stung too many times in life already.
Usually, any other bug is pretty safe.
But not the camel cricket.
It happens to be that time of year when these bugs mysteriously appear in my basement. What is so awful about the camel cricket?
While it doesn’t freak me out nearly as much as those bugs that are the size of dogs and hide in the rain forests or places in Africa or Australia, it comes pretty dang close.
It must be in the cricket family, but unlike the regular cricket, it doesn’t make noise.
Oh no. Its superpower is much, much worse: it jumps.
The problem is that while regular crickets tend to jump away from you, camel crickets jump right up atcha. The first time one did this to me, I thought I was going to drop dead on the spot.
Instead, I ran upstairs screaming at the top of my lungs, and my husband came running.
Him: What’s wrong? Are you okay?
Me: Big! Thing! Basement! Jump!
Him: Um, I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: (grabbing him by the shoulders) BIG! THING! BASEMENT! JUMP!
I took him down and showed him the camel cricket.
Him: Oh…that? I’ll catch it and take it outside.
I ran upstairs, I lay on the couch and pulled a quilt up. I didn’t want to know how he caught it, and I didn’t want to see what he did with it.
A few moments later, he came over to me.
Him: All done. He’s hopping outside with his other bug friends.
What was most disturbing is that I had no idea what it was. Until our friend and neighbor Bert—who, by the way, smirked during my dramatic recounting of what we’ll refer to as “the incident”—told us what it was. He said he would get them a lot. And some were really big.
Great. Just great.
The other day, I went down the basement, and there was the first camel cricket of the season. I decided to name it Bob.
I did what I needed to do, then pretended that I wasn’t running away from Bob and jaunted up the stairs.
Luckily, Bert came down shortly after, caught Bob, and relocated him outside…where he belongs.
In fact, where all the bugs belong!
The next day, I’m sitting in my office (and no, I was not attacked by Mothra), and something landed on my keyboard. For a second, I freaked out. Then I saw it was a cute ladybug (and don’t feel the urge to write anything in telling me bad stuff about ladybugs) crawling across it. I dubbed her “Francine” and let her crawl onto my finger. As I was getting ready for a work call, I yelled to my husband, who took Francine and put her outside.
Easy peasy. Almost too easy…
The next day (and at this point, I had to wonder if it was “Temporarily Scare the Crap Out of a Human Week) I was about to interview someone when something—along the size of Mothra—flew in front of my face. And it was buzzing loudly.
I slowly turned my head, as I could see that whatever it was had landed on my bulletin board.
It was a stinkbug.
Really? I thought we had attracted a natural predator, as I hardly ever see those anymore.
Then I realized I had to amend my rule about not sending bugs into the afterlife only if they’re ones that sting.
I grabbed a tissue. I picked it off. And I took it to the bathroom, where it soon swirled down to its watery doom.
It’s been a few days since any other bugs have appeared in my home. And I’m just fine with that.
Notice to all insects: tell all your friends—we have an agreement: in late fall and all through winter, no bugs! None! Go away!
It’s bad enough that I’m dealing with leaves and, soon, snow. And yes, they bug me too.
Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not being creeped out by just the thought of bugs flying or jumping in her home, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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